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lEnolieb   Mortbics 


Edited  by  ANDREW  LANG 


BEN    JONSON 


BY 


JOHN    ADDINGTON    8YMONDS 


UNIVERSITY 


NEW    YORK 
I).    A  PPL  ETON    AND    COMPANY 

1898 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    BIRTH    AKD   APPRENTICESHIP       .           •           i           •           .  1 

II.     FIRST   PERIOD    OP   MANHOOD 22 

III.  JONSON'S   DRAMATIC    STYLE           •           ....  60 

IV.  THE    MASTERPIECES  .       •           , 70 

T.    MASQUES   AT    COURT    AND    LYRICS         ....  123 

TL    SECOND   PERIOD    OP   MANHOOD 143 

VIL    OLD   AGE 173 


S3184 


-^*    OF  THE     ^r^ 

UNIVERSITY 


BEN    JONSON. 

CHAPTER  J.\.     .       .       yjo^^Ki 

BIRTH  AND    APPRENTICESHIP. 

Benjamin  Jonson  was  born  in  1573^__In  the  course  of 
conversation  with  Drummond,  at  Hawthornden,  he  gave 
some  particulars  of  his  parentage.  '  His  grandfather 
came  from  Carlisle,  and,  he  thought,  from  Annandale  to 
it ;  he  served  King  Henry  VIII.,  and  was  a  gentleman. 
His  father  lost  all  his  estate  under  Queen  Mary,  having 
been  cast  in  prison  and  forfeited ;  at  last  turned  minister: 
so  he  was  a  minister's  son.  He  himself  was  posthumous 
born,  a  month  after  his  father's  decease.' 

The  spelling  of  family  names  varied  almost  in- 
definitely in  the  sixteenth  century.  It  is  therefore  no 
argument  against  Jonson's  Annandale  descent  that  he 
did  not  write  himself  Johnston.  When  he  called  his 
grandfather  '  a  gentleman,'  this  meant,  in  the  customary 
parlance  of  the  time,  that  he  had  the  right  to  bear  coat- 
armour.  From  Drummond  we  learn  that  the  poet's 
coat  was  of '  three  spindles  or  rhorribi:  This  indication 
has  led  me  upon  a  somewhat  pircuitous  route  to  the 

B 


2  Ben  Jonson 

conclusion  that  lie  was  really  of  Border  blood.  The 
main  features  of  the  Annandale  Johnstones'  shield  are 
a  saltire  and  a  chief,  the  latter  charged  with  three 
cushions.  With  this  shield  Jonson's  Hhree  spindles' 
have  no  apparent  connection.  But  I  found  that  Burke, 
in  his  ^  General  Armoury/  blazoned  one  coat  of  Johnson 
as  follows  :  ^  Or,  three  fusils  in  fesse,  sable.'  Now  the 
heraldic  fusil  is  e(][uivalent,  etymologically,  to  a  spindle, 
',  jind  in  form  \  reseniibles  the  geometrical  figure  called 
rhombus.  On  applying  to  our  Heralds'  College  I  was 
iiiifbi'ilicd  that  io  official  authority  existed  for  the  coat 
of  Johnson  as  above  blazoned  by  Burke. ^  Next  I  made 
application  to  the  Lyon  Office,  in  Edinburgh,  and  from 
R.  R.  Stodart,  Esq.,  to  whom  my  cordial  thanks  are 
due,  obtained  the  following  solution  of  the  problem.  A 
saltire  and  a  chief  formed  the  original  bearings  of  the 
Lords  of  Annandale,  and  these  were  adopted  by  the 
Annands,  Griersons,  Johnstones,  Moffats,  and  others, 
with  changes  of  tincture  and  additional  charges. 
Among  such  additions,  that  of  a  cushion  was  distinctive 
of  the  Johnstones.  In  old  Scotch  heraldry  the  cushion 
was  presented  in  the  form  of  a  lozenge,  not,  as  now, 
in  that  of  a  rectangle.  It  seems,  therefore,  tolerably 
certain  that  Jonson  had  retained  the  specific  bearing 
of  his  Annandale  forbears,  namely,  three  cushions, 
depicted  lozenge-wise,  in  which .  shape  they  assum 
the  semblance  of  the  heraldic  fusil,  spindle,  or 
rhombus.  His  grandfather's  Christian  name  being 
wanting,  it  is  hopeless  to  prove  his  descent  from  any 
of  the  numerous  Border  Johnstones.     Yet  I  think  the 

*  For  this  information,  courteously  and  liberally  given,  I  have  to 
thank  E.  Bellasis,  Esq.,  Blue  Mantle. 


Birth  and  Apprenticeship  3 

argument  which  I  have  set  forth,  and  which  illustrates 
the  importance  of  heraldry  in  historical  investigations, 
gives  us  the  right  to  believe  that  English  literature 
owes  the  honour  of  Ben  Jonson  to  the  Scotch  Border. 

Two  years  after  the  death  of  her  first  husband, 
Jonson's  mother  married  a  master-bricklayer  or  builder, 
who  subsequently  took  his  step-son  into  his  trade. 
This  circumstance  gave  rise  to  much  malicious  gibing 
on  the  part  of  his  literary  enemies,  and  established 
the  tradition  that  the  author  of  ^  Sejanus '  and 
'  The  Alchemist '  was  bred  a  working  mason.  Fancy 
pictures  have,  accordingly,  been  freely  drawn  by  im- 
aginative biographers  of  Jonson  as  an  ungainly  youths 
ascending  a  ladder  with  his  hod  or  trowel  in  one  hand 
and  a  '  Tacitus '  in  the  other.  JSTothing  could  be  farther 
from  the  truth.  Though  Jonson  tells  us  himself  that 
he  was  '  brought  up  poorlvv  he  vet  received  the  best 
education  which  the  times  afforded.  His  step-father 
sent  him  first  to  a  private  school  at  St.  Martin's-in-the- 
Fields,  whence  he  afterwards  advanced,  through  the 
liberality  of  a  friend,  to  Westminster.  Here  the  great 
scholar  and  antiquary,  William  Camden,  was  then 
second  master;  and  we  have  reason  to  believe  that 
Camden  was  the  friend  to  whom  Jonson  owed  his 
entrance  into  one  of  the  chief  nurseries  of  English 
J  iith.  Under  Camden's  personal  guidance  he  laid  the 
foundation  of  that  thorough  and  extensive  knowledge 
of  Greek  and  Latin  literature  which  made  him  the  most 
fearned  poet  of  his  age.  Camden  also  trained  him  in 
•  habits  ot  composition,',  which  exercised  no  slight  m- 
^fluence  over  his  style.  He  told  Drummond  that  it  was 
his  wont  to  write  first  in  prose,  and  then  to  versify  the 

B  2 


4  Ben  J  on  son 

matter  thus  digested',  adding  that  ^so  his  master, 
Camden,  had  learned  him.'  The  benefits  which  he 
received  at  Westminster  were  repaid  by  Jonson  with 
grateful  and  affectionate  remembrance.  The  magnifi- 
cent dedication  of  his  first  great  comedy,  ^  Every  Man 
in  his  Humour,'  testifies  to  Jonson's  feeling  for  his 
master ;  while  one  of  his  most  spontaneous  effusions  in 
elegiac  verse : — 

/       Camden !  most  reverend  head,  to  whom  I  owo 
All  that  I  am  in  arts,  all  that  I  know, 

l^ears  upon  it  the  stamp  of  heartfelt  sincerity*--. 

Whether  Jonson  proceeded  from  Westminster  to 
Cambridge  is  a  matter  of  doubt ;  for  the  records  of  the 
university  are  imperfect  during  some  years  in  which  he 
may  have  matriculated.  Jonson  made  no  mention  of 
Cambridge  to  Drummond,  and  ascribed  his  degree  of 
M.A.  in  both  universities  to  '  their  favour,  not  his 
studies.'  Moreover,  the  couplet  just  quoted  from  his 
address  to  Camden  proves  that  he  recognised  no  debt 
to  any  other  Alma  Mater  than  his  school.  Yet  our 
authority  for  the  fact  that  he  resided  at  least  a  few 
weeks  at  Cambridge  is  fairly  good.  Fuller  states  it 
without  hesitation.  It  was,  anyhow,  at  this  period, 
after  his  first  studies  were  completed,  that  he  became 
assistant  or  apprentice  to  his  step-father.  From  what 
he  told  Drummond,  we  should  be  rather  inclined  to 
suppose  that  he  went  straight  from  Westminster  into 
the  builder's  service. 

His  previous  education  and  the  bent  of  his  genius 
rendered  Jonson  unfit  for  trade  or  handicraft.  Nothing 
is  more  strongly  marked  in  him  than  a  conviction  6F 
^is  own  vocation  as  a  scliolar-poet,  combined  with  his^ 


Birth  and  Apprenticeship  5 

Iiauylity_sense  of  its  dijgnity._  Whether  he  was  now  set 
tbbuild  walls  with  his  own  hands,  to  superintend  wall- 
building,  or  to  keep  accounts  in  the  builder's  office,  does 
not  signify.  Whatever  his  duties  were,  they  proved 
distasteful.  He  broke  suddenly  away  from  home,  en- 
listed as  a  soldier,  and  joined  the  Entrlish  troops  in  the 
IjOW  Countries.  T)ruriimond  records  his  boast  of  having 
engaged  m  single  combat  with  an  enemy  '  in  the  face  of 
both  the  camps.'  He  killed  the  man  and  stripped  him 
of  his  armour,  which  he  characteristically  called  '  taking 
sjjolia  o^ima  from  him.'  History  is  silent  on  this  ex« 
ploit,  but  there  is  nothing  improbable  in  the  narration. 
Jonson  was  a  man  of  vjgorous  build,  inr^nhiJ-alxLe 
courage,  and  almost  truculent  thirst  for  distinction^ 
Such  ^uels,  too,  were  common  in  an  age  when  cam- 
paigns dragged  indolently  on,  the  leaguered  forces  of 
two  hostile  nations  lying  for  months  together  within 
earshot  of  each  other. 

Jonson  did  not  stay  long  abroad.  It  is  clear  from 
the  biographical  notes  supplied  to  Drummond  that  he 
adopted  military  service  only  as  a  means  of  escape  from 
his  step-father's  uncongenial  industry.  When  he  re- 
turned  to  London,  having  thus  asserted  his  independ- 
ence, he  resumed  his  wonted  studies,  and  soon, 
apparently,  took  to  himself  a  wife.  This  was  probably 
in  1592.  Of  his  domestic  life  we  know  but  little.  He 
described  his^  helpmate  as  ^  a  shrew,  yet  honest ' ;  which 
means,  I  suppose,  that  though  she  had  a  bad  temper,  she 
remained  loyal  to  her  marriao-e  vows.  This  is  more 
than  can  be  said  for  Jonson,  who,  upon  his  own  avowal 
in  certain  coarsely  outspoken  anecdotes,  was  by  no 
means  a  faithful  husband.^  On  one  occasion  he  spent 


6  Ben  Jonson 

five  years  apart  from  his  family,  lodging  all  tliat  while 
in  the  house  of  his  friend,  Esm^  Stuart,  Lord  Aubigny. 
There  were  several  children  by  this  marriage,  all  of 
whom  Jonson  survived.  _To  these  he  was  attac^dL^s 
appears  from  the  elegies  on  his  eldest  daughter  and 
eldest  son ;  and  also  from  his  anxiety,  in  later  life,  to 
obtain  the  reversion  of  a  place  at  Court  for  another  of 
his  sons.  Yet  Fuller  says—'  He  was  not  very  happy  in 
his  children.' 

This  may  be  the  fitting  place  to  introduce  a  singular 
incident  connected  with  his  son  s  death^  The  boy  died 
of  plague,  in  1603,  when  his  father  was  staying,  together 
with  old  Camden,  at  Sir  Kobert  Cotton's  house  in  the 
country.  On  this  occasion,  as  Drummond  reports 
Jonson's  words,  '  he  saw  in  a  vision  his  eldest  son,  then 
a  child  and  at  London,  appear  unto  him  with  the  mark 
of  a  bloody  cross  on  his  forehead,  as  if  it  had  been  cutted 
with  a  sword,  at  which,  amazed,  he  prayed  unto  God ; 
and  in  the  morning  he  came  to  Mr.  Camden's  chamber 
to  tell  him,  who  persuaded  him  it  was  but  ane  appre- 
hension of  his  phantasy,  at  which  he  should  not  be 
dejected.  In  the  meantime  comes  there  letters  from 
his  wife  of  the  death  of  that  boy  in  the  plague.  He 
appeared  to  him  (he  said)  of  a  manly  shape,  and  of  that 
growth  that  he  thinks  he  shall  be  at  the  resurrection.' 
We  shall  soon  learn  to  know  Jonson  as  eminently  the 
poet  of  sound  common  sense  and  robust  workmanship. 
Therefore  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  point  out  now  what 
there  was  of  visionary  in  his  temperament.  Drummond, 
in  the  final  abstract  of  his  character,  describes  him  as 
'oppressed  with  phantasy,  which  hath  ever  mastered  his 
reason,  a  general  disease  in  many  poets.'     And,  beside 


Birth  and  Apprenticeship  7 

the  curious  tale  of  second  sight  which  I  have  just  tran- 
scribed, Jonson  lets  fall  hints  of  dreamy  abstracted  ^ 
niood_s,  more  suited  to  the  poet  of  the  '  Orlando  Furioso  ' 
than  to  the  playwright  of  '  Volpone/  For  example :  '  He 
hath  consumed  a  whole  night  iu  lying  looking  to  his 
great  toe,  about  which  he  hath  seen  Tartars  and  Turks, 
Romans  and  Carthaginians,  fight  in  his  imagination.'  ^ 
These  freaks  of  fancy  must  in  part  be  ascribed  doubtless 
to  constitutional  humours  acting  on  a  saturnine  and 
brooding  intellect.  Yet  it  would  not  be  impossible,  I 
think,  to  regard  Jonson's  genius  as  orjoinally  of  the  ^ 
romantic  order^.  overlaid  and  diverted  from  its  spon- 
taneous bias  by  aT  scholar's  education,  and  by  dojLnite 
theories  of  the  poet's  task,  deliberately  adopted  and 
tenaciously  adhered  to  in  iniddle  life^  In  the  sequel  of 
this  chapter  I  may  perhaps  be  able  to  adduce  arguments 
in  support  of  this  view. 

It  was  probably  in  order  to  support  his  family  that 
Jonson  now  sought  work  at  the  London  theatres.  His 
own  accounts  of  the  beginning  of  his  literary  life  show 
that  he  had .  to  struggle  with  considerable  difficulties. 
The  prologue  to  the  '  Sad  Shepherd,'  written  perhaps 
in  1637,  opens  with  these  lines  : — 

He  that  hatli  feasted  jqvl.  these  forty  years, 
And  fitted  fables  for  your  finer  ears, 
Although  at  first  he  could  not  hit  the  bore. 

It  does  not  appear  that  the  playwright's  occupation 
was  ever  much  to  Jonson's  taste,  for  when  he  had  aban- 
doned writing  for  the  stage  in  1616,  only  hard  necessity 
forced  him  to  resume  it  at  a  later  date.  He  told  Drum- 
mond  ^  that  the  half  of  lllfe  comedies  were  not  in  print,' 
and  that  he  had  cleared  but  200?.  by  all  his  labours  for 


•  8  Ben  J  on  son 

the  public  theatre.  Unlike  Shakespeare,  he  failed  to 
become  partner  in  one  of  the  chief  companies.  Owing 
to  this  circumstance,  more  than  to  any  other,  he  never 
succeeded  in  making  a  modest  fortune  by  his  work. 
j  I  He  was,  indeed,  too  disdainful  to  accept  the  conditions 
of  his  profession,  and  too  stubborn  in  the  conception  he 
had  formed  of  the  poet's  function  to  bend  with  pliant 
ease  to  the  exigencies  of  the  drama  as  it  then  existed. 
He  used  the  theatre  as  a  makeshift  in  his  want  of 
money,  and  wrote  plays  to  vent  his  satire  on  society  and 
human  foibles. _ 

We  do  not  know  for  certain  how  Jonson  was  em- 
ployed for  the  stage  during  the  six  years  which  elapsed 
between  the  date  of  his  marriage  and  the  appearance  of 
'  Every  Man  in  his  Humour.'  Yet  it  may  be  conjectured 
that,  like  Shakespeare,  he  began  by  mending  old  plays. 
It  is  also  probable  that  he  acted.  An  untrustworthy 
tradition  asserts  that  he  played  the  part  of  Hieronymo 
in  the  '  Spanish  Tragedy/  while  strfUing  the  country 
with  a  vagabond  troop.  It  is  not,  however,  likely  that 
the  character  of  Hieronymo  would  have  been  assigned 
to  him.  Jonson  was  a  big  unwieldy  fellow ;  Hieronymo 
in  Kyd's  play  insists  upon  his  insignificant  stature,  and, 
since  he  was  a  favourite  stage  personage,  no  company 
could  have  given  his  part  to  the  stoutest  and  tallest  of 
their  number.  Jonson  was,  however,  connected  in  a  very 
curious  and  important  way  with  the  '  Spanish  Tragedy,' 
as  I  shall  ere  long  have  occasion  to  relate.  If  he 
served  his  apprenticeship  as  actor  as  well  as  playwright, 
this  was  probably  at  the  Paris  Garden  theatre,  for 
Marston  sneered  at  him  as  '  Jack  of  Paris  Garden.' 
It  will  be  necessary  at  this  point  to  introduce  a 


Birth  and  Apprenticeship  9 

brief  sketch  of  the  English  drama  antecedent  to  1598, 
at  which  date  Jonson  first  challenged  public  censure 
with  a  comedy  distinguished  by  his  own  peculiar  style. 
Without  some  retrospective  survey  it  would  be  difficult  ^ 
for  those  who  have  not  made  a  special  study  of  the  sub- 
ject to  understand  Jonson's  attitude  toward  the  art  of  his 
age.  Miracle  Plays,  founded  on  the  sacred  history  and 
doctrine  of  the  Church,  had  been  popular  in  England 
during  the  Middle  Ages.  Among  us,  more  than  else- 
where in  Europe,  they  assumed  the  comprehensive  form 
of  cycles,  embracing  in  a  series  of  actions  the  whole 
drama  of  humanity,  from  the  Creation  down  to  Dooms- 
day. In  course  of  time  minor  episodes  were  detached 
from  these  colossal  schemes,  and  treated  with  rude 
pathos  or  coarse  humour  as  the  case  might  be.  Thus 
the  germs  of  tragedy  and  comedy  were  implanted  in  the 
English  mind  before  the  new  learning  of  the  Renais- 
sance had  suggested  subtle  problems  as  to  the  true 
theory  of  dramatic  art.  A  further  step  in  the  evolutioir~> 
of  our  national  theatre  from  the  shapeless  material  of  ( 
the  Mi];:acle  Plays  may  be  observed  in  those  Moralities,  ^ 
or  Moral  Plays,  which,  as  their  name  implies,  brought  / 
abstract  vices  and  virtues  undef"the  form  of  persons 
on  the  stage.  They  were  fashionable  throughout  the 
reigns  of  Henry  VII.  and  Henry  VIII.,  and  held  their 
own  long  after  the  secular  drama  had  been  established. 
Dull  and  wooden  as  were  the  allegories  in  these  pieces, 
it  was  impossible  to  make  such  characters  as  Youth, 
Good  Counsel,  the  Devil,  Hypocrisy,  Abominable  Living, 
and  so  forth,  walk  and  talk  together  on  the  stage  under 
the  guise  of  men  and  women,  without  developing  dia- 
logue,  introducing   incident,    and   marking  character. 


10  Ben  J  on  son 

?  Thus  the  Moral  Play  led  by  imperceptible  degrees  to 
I  the  Interlude,  which  completed  the  disengagement  of 
the  drama  from  religious  and  didactic  aims.  Inter- 
!  ludes,  regarded  as  a  special  type  of  early  histrionic 
I  art,  brought  real  people,  distinguished  by  differences  of 
;  nature,  interests,  and  callings,  into  some  common  action. 
From  them  to  the  Farce  and  Comedy  proper  there  was 
but  one  step  to  take.  Comedy  naturally  developed 
itself  earlier  than  tragedy  out  of  the  material  of  the 
sacred  and  moral  drama.  The  tragic  elements  were 
too  august  to  be  lightly  handled,  nor  did  they  lend 
themselves  to  separate  treatment,  whereas  comic  inci- 
dents, suggested  by  the  scene  of  the  Nativity  or  by 
the  allegory  of  Youth  seduced  by  Wantonness,  could  be 
easily  detached  and  made  subjects  for  humorous  ex- 
pansion. Tragedy,  however,  although  at  a  slower  pace, 
followed  the  same  path.  I  have  already  observed  that 
the  cyclical  Miracle  Plays  broke  up  into  episodes.  Such 
pieces  as  '  Godly  Queen  Esther,'  '  King  Darius,'  '  The 
Conversion  of  St.  Paul,'  exhibited  the  same  style  of 
handling  as  the  Miracle  proper.  But  they  had  the 
merit  of  confining  the  dramatic  interest  to  one  action, 
and  of  allowing  a  certain  degree  of  character-drawing. 
They  also  concentrated  attention  on  the  story,  dealing 
in  a  merely  perfunctory  way  with  its  lessons  of  edifica- 
tion. Thus  the  English  people  were  prepared  for  that 
indiscriminate  use  of  histories,  fables,  novels,  narratives 
of  every  kind,  which  eventually  determined  the  character 
of  our  Shakespearian  drama.  Before  Eenaissance  in- 
fluences touched  our  shores  the  public  had  developed  for 
itself  both  comedy  and  tragedy,  in  a  rude  and  ill-deter- 
mined fashion,  it  is  true,  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  render 


Birth  and  Apprenticeship  Ii 

tlie  higlily  complex  style  of  our  greatest  playwrights 
not  only  possible  but  inevitable. 

Just  at  this  point  the  nascent  English  drama  was 
threatened  with  a  serious  danger.  Together  with  the 
new  learning  of  the  classical  revival,  came  the  enthusiasm 
for  Italian  culture.  Critics  like  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  poets 
like  Lord  Buckhurst,  by  precept  and  by  practice  tried 
to  check  the  growth  of  that  rank  literature  which  filled 
the  theatres  of  London,  as  they  thought,  with  weeds. 
They  contended  that  the  nr> ly  (\v^Mn^.  worthy  of  a  great 
people  in  an  enlightened  age  was  one  modelled  upon 
the  jjatin  manner  of  Seneca,  as  this  had  been  adapted 
tp  the  stage^f  Italy.  Consequently  they  began  to 
deride  the  medleys  of  farce  and  bloodshed,  pathos  and 
l)uttoonery.  The  interminable  histories  and  perplexed 
"fables,  which  delip^hted  vulgar  audiences,  in  their  stead^ 
they  penned  ceremonious  tragedies,  with  due  regard  for 
tiie  unities  and  strict  observance  of  decorum.  These 
were  played  with  applause  before  the  Court  and  learned 
UOLeries.     But  lEe  nation  could  not  be  deluded  into  ex- 


changing the  new  dramatic  form  evolved  from  their  own  ^ 
gmiua,  for  the  Hryflnd  1if(Rlpss  iTnjtn.tinTi  of  a.  tormgn  fl.rf. 
removed  by  three_degr££a-fa)m  natug^e^ 

'The  new  dramatic  form  which  I  have  just  mentioned 
deserves  now  to  be  styled  the  JRomantic,  as  opposed 
to  the  Classical,  Drama.  A  succession  of  good  writers, 
beginning  with  Edwards  and  Whetstone,  followed  by 
Greene,  Peele,  Nash,  Lodge,  Yarington,  Kyd,  Lyly, 
and  many  authors  of  anonymous  plays,  developed  its 
various  branches.  They  gave  specific  character  to  the 
History  Play,  Domestic  Tragedy,  the  Tragedy  of  Blood, 
the  Pastoral  Play,  the  Masque  and  Allegoiy,  Comedy 


l^  Ben  JonsoM 

of  several  kinds,  Farce,  Extravaganza,  Burlesque  and 
Satire.  ..Being  men  of  education,  standing  midway 
between  the  people  and  the  cultivated  classes,  these  play- 
wrights adopted  so  much  of  form  and  handling  from 
the  classical  school  as  gave  regularity  of  proportion  to 
the  formerly  amorphous  romantic  play.  They  did  not 
attempt  to  alter  its  distinctive  qualities.  The  inter- 
changeability  of  pathos  and  humour,  the  indifference 
to  unities  of  time  and  place,  the  rapid  succession  of 
stirring  incidents,  the  sacrifice  of  every  other  element 
to  action  on  the  stage,  still  remained  the  striking  fea- 
tures of  English  drama.  But  they  studied  unity  of 
subject,  fixed  the  number  of  the  acts  at  five,  employed 
rhymed  iambic  verse  instead  of  the  jingling  rhythms 
of  their  predecessors,  and  sought  to  create  characters 
which  should  be  worthy  of  the  accomplished  actors 
who  were  now  competing  for  public  favour. 

Foremost  among  these  founders  of  Elizabethan 
drama  towers  Marlowe.  His  brilliant  period  of  brief 
activity  secured  the  future  of  romantic  art,  rendering 
it  impossible  that  any  change  of  taste  should  supersede 
it  with  the  pseudo-classic  manner  of  Italy  or  France. 
After  1587,  when  the  first  part  of  '  Tamburlaine'  was 
given  to  the  world,  blank  verse  became  the  regular 
dramatic  metre  of  the  public  stage. 

It  had  already  been  employed  in  Court  by  dramas  of 
the  scholastic  type,  but  Marlowe  made  it  popular.  He 
also  showed  playwrights  how  it  could  be  handled  with 
a  flexibility,  a  resonance,  and  a  variety  of  cadence  un- 
known to  the  timid  versifiers  of  the  classic  school.  At 
the  same  time  that  he  fixed  and  improved  the  metre  of 
the  serious  drama,  Marlowe  advanced  his  art,  in  all  that 


Birth  and  Apprenticlship  13 

concerns  treatment  of  subject,  study  of  character,  and 
poetical  sublimity,  far  beyond  the  point  which  had  been 
reached  by  Greene  or  Peele.     When  Marlowe  died  in 
1593,  he  had  given  six  tragedies  to  the  English  stage, 
one  of  which,  ^  Edward  II.,'  is  not  at  all  inferior  to  the 
work  of  Shakespeare's  younger  age.     Shakespeare  him- 
self came   probably  to  London  in  1585.     One  of  his 
earliest  extant  plays,  '  Love's  Labour  Lost,'  was  written  1 
before  1590.     Jonson,  as  we  have  seen,  began  to  work/ 
for  the  theatres  after  1592,  and  in  1598  produced  the/ 
first  comedy  which  bears  his  special  stamp  of  style.     He 
therefore  shared  almost  equally  with  Shakespeare  in 
the   powerful   influences  of  Marlowe's  somewhat  elder 
art.    Like  Shakespeare,  he  had  to  mend  imperfect  scenes, 
to  furnish   additions   for  plays  which  were   becoming 
stale,  to  improve  faulty  verses,  and,  what  was  even  more 
important,  to  take  his  part  in  representations  on  the 
stage.     All  the  plays  with  which  the  two  leaders  of  the        \ 
English   drama   had   to  deal   in   these   years  of  their        1 
apprenticeship  were  romantic.     All  bore  the  mark  to        r 
some  degree  of  Marlowe's  manner.     Shakespeare  con- 
tented himself  with  bringing  the  romantic  style  to  the 
very  height  of  perfection  in  ^  Othello,'  ^  King  Lear,'  and 
'  The  Winter's  Tale.'     Jonson,  on  the  contrary,  swerved 
aside  from  that  tradition.     It  is,  indeed,  true  that  even         ^ 
his  most  regular  plays  are  influenced  by  the  romantic    ^' 
spirit  of  the  age.     Yet  he  strove  to  strike  out  for  him- 
self a  new  method,  which  should  adhere  more  closely  to    \    , / 
classical   models,   and   exemplify  classical   rules   more 
nicely^  than  that  of  his  predecessor  Marlowe  or  thatj)f 
Jlli^JiromparRhlf^  friVnd  ^^f^  f'^I^O^y-worker  Shakespeare. 
To  ^  large  exteiit  he  succeeded  •  and  his  best  comedies 


14  Ben  J  on  son 

form  a  dramatic  species  which  has  no  analogue  in  Eliza- 
bethan literature. 

The  material  resources  of  the  stage  in  England  were 
developed  in  the  same  homely  and  spontaneous  fashion 
as  its  art.  While  Palladio  was  building  a  stately  Eoman 
theatre  at  Vicenza  for  the  representation  of  lifeless 
dramas  in  the  style  of  Seneca,  rough  wooden  sheds  erected 
in  suburban  fields,  or  scaffoldings  run  up  in  yards  of 
London  hostelries,  formed  the  first  cradle  of  the  Muse  of 
Shakespeare  and  of  Jonson.  Little  by  little  theatres, 
properly  so  called,  came  into  existence,  while  bear-pits 
and  such  places  of  popular  entertainment  were  adapted 
to  the  needs  of  acting  companies.  Even  the  two  finest 
of  these  theatres,  the  Globe  and  Fortune,  were  rude 
wooden  edifices,  only  partially  roofed  in.  The  stage,  on 
which  the  play  was  shown,  projected  into  the  pit  or 
yard,  where  spectators  stood  together  on  bare  ground. 
For  those  who  could  afford  such  luxuries,  boxes  were 
provided  round  this  open  central  space  ;  and  men  of 
fashion  might  purchase  the  use  of  stools  upon  the  stage 
by  payment  of  an  extra  fee.  The  actors  were  thus 
brought  into  closest  contact  with  the  audience;  and 
scenery  may  be  said  to  have  been  almost  wholly  wanting. 
Hitherto  I  have  described  what  were  known  as  public 
theatres.  The  so-called  private  houses  differed  from 
them  in  being  roofed  over,  smaller,  rather  more  select 
in  company,  and  somewhat  better  furnished.  Perform- 
ances took  place  usually  at  three  P.M.  All  female  parts 
were  acted  by  boys.  The  same  men  exercised  both  arts 
of  play-writing  and  play-acting,  and  very  frequently' 
owned  some  share  in  the  general  profits  of  the  theatre. 
It  was  thus  that  the  whole  business  of  the  drama  in 


Birth  and  Apprenticeship  15 

I  London  came  into  the  hands  of  rival  companies.  These, 
from  being  numerous  and  variable  in  the  earlier  period 
of  its  history,  had  at  the  epoch  I  shall  have  to  treat  of 
been  absorbed  into  two  permanent  and  powerful  antago- 
nistic bodies.  They  were  severally  known  as  the  Lord 
Chamberlain's  and  the  Lord  Admiral's  men.  Shake- 
speare and  Burbage  ht^aded  the  former  company ;  Hen- 
si  owe,  the  capitalist,  and  Alleyne,  the  actor,  led  the 
latter.  The  headquarters  of  the  one  were  the  Globe 
and  Blackfriars.  The  Fortune  and  various  smaller 
houses  controlled  by  Henslowe  employed  the  other  troop. 
The  curious  diary  kept  by  Henslowe  shows  that  in 
1597  Jonson  was  working  regularly  for  this  manager. 
Nothing,  however,  is  known  to  have  survived  from  this 
period  of  his  authorship.  That  he  must  have  adopted 
the  dominant  romantic  style  seems  tolerably  certain ; 
and  that  he  was  a  master  of  that  style  is  proved  by 
the  additions  to  the  '  Spanish  Tragedy,'  produced  by  him 
so  late  as  1601-1602.  Competent  judges  and  critics  of 
high  excellence  have  protested  against  the  ascription 
of  these  intensely  dramatic  and  powerfully  imaginative 
scenes — ^  the  very  salt  of  the  old  play,'  as  Charles  Lamb 
called  them — to  Jonson's  pen.  Yet  no  arguments  have 
been  adduced  to  disprove  the  plain  evidence  of  Jonson's 
authorship  afforded  by  Henslowe's  diary.  He  probably 
created  not  merely  that  impassioned  picture  of  a 
father  crazed  and  maddened  by  his  son's  murder,  but 
also  much  else  fantastically  terrible  in  the  romantic 
style,  before  settling  down  to  his  distinctive  manner. 
We  know  that  he  collaborated  with  Dekker  on  a 
domestic  tragedy  called  '  Page  of  Plymouth.'  This 
is  unfortunately  lost.     Else  it  had  certainly  been  one 


V 


1 6  Ben  JoNsoN 

of  the  most  valuable  documents  for  studying  tlie  deve- 
lopment of  Jonson's  genius.  A  further  proof  that 
Jonson  long  dallied  with  the  purely  romantic  muse  is 
furnished  by  one  of  the  earliest,  if  not  actually  the  first,  of 
his  extant  comedies,  ^  The  Case  is  Altered.'  This  play 
stands  apart  from  all  the  rest  of  Jonson's  work  ;  and  has 
singular  interest  owing  to  the  indecision  between  the 
romantic  and  the  classic  methods  which  it  exhibits.  It 
is,  in  fact,  a  comedy  of  the  fanciful  Elizabethan  species, 
soinewhat  in  the  tone  of  Middleton,  founded  upon  the 
plots  of  the  'Captivi'  and  the  ^  Aulularia.'  The 
characters  of  Rachel,  Chamont,  Camillo,  and  Count  Fer- 
neze  are  such  as  Fletcher  might  have,  outlined ;  though 
their  portraits  are  filled  in  with  something  of  Jonsonian 
hardness.  Juniper,  the  cobbler,  who  is  '  an  eyesore  to 
everybody  by  the  mispronunciation  of  epigrams,'  is  a 
fairly  clever  first  cousin  of  Dogberry,  and  grandsire  of 
Mrs.  Malaprop.  But  the  methodical  way  in  which  his 
oddities  are  exhibited,  already  forecasts  Jonson's  me- 
chanical employment  of  humours  on  the  stage.  The 
personal  satire  of  Anthony  Munday  in  '  Antonio  Bal- 
ladino,'  and  the  general  satire  upon  London  playgoers, 
anticipate  those  asperities  of  criticism  which  embittered 
the  dramatist's  middle  life.  Altogether,  after  reading 
'  The  Case  is  Altered,'  we  are  inclined  to  regret  that 
Jonson  did  not  bring  to  perfection  the  species  which  he 
here  essayed,  combining  delicate  poetry  aud  graceful 
sentiment  with  firmly  constructed  plot  and  careful 
character-drawing,  instead  of  devoting  himself  exclu- 
sively to  the  harder  and  more  prosaic  manner  of  his 
maturity. 

I  have  already  stated   that,  so   far   as  we  know, 


Birth  and  Apprenticeship  ly 

Jonson  was  at  no  time  beneficially  connected  with  any 
of  the  players'  companies  as  shareholder.  He  derived 
his  ]Day  for  piece-work  from  Henslowe ;  and  in  Septem- 
ber 1598  an  event  happened  which,  for  a  time  at  any 
rate,  deprived  him  of  this  employment.  One  of  the 
actors  in  Henslowe's  company,  named  Gabriel  Spencer, 
challenged  him  to  a  duel  in  Hogsden  Fields.  Jonson 
killed  his  man ;  and  when  he  related  the  incident  to 
Drummond,  he  mentioned  that  Spencer's  sword  was  ten 
inches  longer  than  his  own.  A  letter  from  Henslowe 
supplies  us  with  the  adversary's  name;  and  after  that 
of  Benjamin  Jonson  adds  ^  bricklayer.' 

Thus  far  I  had  written,  npon  the  evidence  furnished 
by  Jonson's  conversations  with  Drummond  and  Hen- 
slowe's letter,  when  a  document  of  great  importance, 
bearing  upon  the  duel,  was  brought  to  light. ^  We  owe 
it  to  Mr.  John  Cordy  JeafFreson's  researches  in  the 
Sessions  Files,  or  Middlesex  Sessions  Eolls,  for  the 
period  of  Edward  VI. 's,  Mary's,  and  Elizabeth's  reigns. 
It  throws  a  light  so  curious,  and  in  some  respects  so 
unexpected,  on  the  incident,  that  I  shall  introduce  it  in 
this  place.  From  it  we  learn  not  only  that  Jonson  was 
tried  at  the  Old  Bailey  for  homicide,  but  also  that  he 
w^as  convictea  on  his  own  confession ;  that  he  pleaded 
his  clergy  to  escape  capital  punishment  for  felony ;  and 
that  he  was  dismissed  with  the  customary  penalty  of  a 
brand  upon  the  thumb  of  his  left  hand  and  the  forfeit 
of  his  goods  and  chattels^  The  original  document, 
which  is  written  in  Latin,  c  isists  of  the  indictment  and 
the  Clerk  of  the  Peace's  mei  .orandum.  The  former  is 
here  printed  in  roman  type,  the  latter  in  italics ;  and 
'  Athena'um,  March  6,  1886. 

C 


1 8  Ben  JoNso^ 

the  English  version  communicated  by  the  discoverer  of 
the  paper  has  been  adopted. 

He  confesses  the  indictment,  asks  for  the  hook,  reads  like  a 
clerk,  is  marked  with  the  letter  T,  and  is  delivered  ac- 
cording to  the  statute,  <Scc. 

Middlesex  : — The  jurors  for  the  Lady  the  Queen  present, 
that  Benjamin  Johnson,  late  of  London,  j^eoman,  on  the 
22nd  day  of  September,  in  the  fortieth  year  of  the  reign  of 
our  Lady  Elizabeth  by  God's  grace  Queen  of  England, 
France,  and  Ireland,  Defender  of  the  Faith,  &c.,  with  force 
and  arms,  &c.,  made  an  attack  against  and  upon  a  certain 
Gabriel  Spencer,  being  in  God's  and  the  said  Lady  the 
Queen's  peace,  at  Shordiche  in  the  aforesaid  county  of 
Middlesex,  in  the  Fields  there,  and  with  a  certain  sword  of 
iron  and  steel  called  a  Kapiour,  of  the  price  of  three  shil- 
lings, which  he  then  and  there  had  and  held  drawn  in  his 
right  liand,  feloniously  and  wilfully  beat  and  struck  the 
same  Gabriel,  giving  then  and  there  to  the  same  Gabriel 
Spencer  with  the  aforesaid  sword  a  mortal  wound  of  the 
depth  of  six  inches  and  of  the  breadth  of  one  inch,  in  and 
upon  the  right  side  of  the  same  Gabriel,  of  which  mortal 
blow  the  same  Gabriel  Spencer  at  Shordiche  aforesaid,  in  the 
aforesaid  county,  in  the  aforesaid  Fields,  then  and  there  died 
instantly.  And  thus  the  aforesaid  jurors  say  upon  their 
oath,  that  the  aforesaid  Benjamin  Johnson,  at  Shorediche 
aforesaid,  in  the  aforesaid  county  of  Middlesex,  and  in  the 
aforesaid  Fields,  in  the  year  and  day  aforesaid,  feloniously 
and  wilfully  killed  and  slew  the  aforesaid  Gabriel  Spencer, 
against  the  peace  of  the  said  Lady  the  Queen,  &c. 

In  his  account  of  the  duel  Jonson  asserted  that  he 
tad  been  '  appealed  to  the  fields.'  It  will  be  observed 
that  the  indictment;  founded  on  his  public  confession. 


Birth  and  Apprenticeship  19 

is  somewhat  at  variance  with  this  statement.  Spencer 
there  appears  to  have  been  '  in  G  od's  and  the  Queen's 
peace/  and  Jonson's  mortal  attack  upon  him  takes  the 
semblance  of  an  unprovoked  or  unsolicited  encounter. 
Yet,  in  justice  to  the  poet,  it  must  be  remembered  that 
the  terms  of  the  indictment  are  not  incompatible  with  a 
previous  challenge.  That  Jonson  was  by  no  means 
ashamed  of  his  part  in  the  adventure^is  /proved  ^by  the 
fact  of  his  narrating  it,  twenty  years  after  its  occurrence, 
to  Drummond,  at  Hawthornden.  It  is  also  noteworthy 
that  none  of  the  literary  antagonists  who  strove  to  slur 
his  character  in  satire  and  drama  described  him  as  a 
murderer.  Singularly  enough,  they  did  not  even  allude 
to  the  felon's  brand,  or  Tyburn  T,  upon  his  thumb.  A 
circumstance  so  notorious  in  the  theatrical  world  as  this 
must  assuredly  have  been,  could  not  have  escaped  the 
memory  of  men  like  Marston  and  Dekker.  We  may 
therefore  draw  the  inference  from  their  silence,  no  less 
than  from  Jonson's  own  free  speech  about  the  matter, 
that  in  some  way  unknown  to  us,  notwithstanding  his 
conviction  for  felonious  homicide,  it  redounded  to  his 
credit  rather  than  otherwise.  At  the  same  time,  the 
record  fully  confirms  his  subsequent  assertion  that  he 
was  '  almost  at  the  gallows ' ;  while  the  danger  he  then 
ran  explains  the  curious  fact  of  his  conversion  to  Catho- 
licism under  the  sharp  and  pressing  dread  of  death. 
If  we  seek  to  pry  still  further  into  the  obscurer  details 
of  the  incident,  we  may  resume  the  admissions  he  made 
in  1619  to  Drummond.  ^  In  the  time  of  his  close  im- 
prisonment, under  Queen  Elizabeth,  his  judges  could 
get  nothing  of  him  to  all  their  demands  but  Aye  and 

c  2 


20  Bnisr  JonsoM 

No.  They  placed  two  damned  villains  to  catch  advan- 
tage of  him  with  him;  but  he  was  advertised  by  his 
keeper.'  This  looks  as  though  an  attempt  had  been 
made  to  convict  him  of  an  unfair  assault  upon  a  man 
who  had  not  challenged  him  to  duel.  Failing  proof  of 
this,  although  the  indictment  was  worded  in  his  dis- 
•^  favour,  he  escaped  the  gallows.  What  the  real  facts  of 
the  encounter  were  cannot  now  be  discovered.  We  only 
know  that  the  author  of  '  Every  Man  in  his  Humour/ 
a  few  weeks  before  that  comedy  raised  him  to  a  first 
rank  among  the  playwrights  of  his  age,  had  to  save  his 
neck  by  reading  from  a  book  in  order  to  prove  his 
clerkship,  and  that  he  left  Newgate  branded  with  the 
letter  T.  It  is  notorious  that  this  branding  was  either 
a  serious  affair  or  a  formal  ceremony,  according  to  the 
bad  or  good  will  of  the  gaoler.  Perhaps  the  friendly 
keeper,  who  warned  him  of  the  spies,  took  care  that  he 
should  not  go  forth  to  the  world  marked  for  life  with 
an  ignominious  stigma. 

As  I  have  already  hinted,  Jonson  was  converted  to 
the  Popish  belief  during  this  imprisonment.  He  told 
Drummond  that  he  had  then  been  visited  by  a  priest,  from 
whom  he  '  took  his  religion  by  trust,'  and  that  he  after- 
wards remained  twelve  years  in  that  persuasion.  What 
caused  his  return  to  Protestantism  does  not  appear.  But 
no  one  who  has  entered  into  intelligent  sympathy  with 
his  character  will  believe  that  he  was  swayed  by  any  of 
those  worldly  motives  which  may  have  had  their  weight 
with  Dryden  in  his  changes  of  faith.  Drummond  relates 
a  curious  detail  about  his  re-conversion.  '  After  he  was 
reconciled  with  the  Church,  and  left  off  to  be  a  recusant, 
at  his  first  Communion,  in  token  of  true  reconciliation, 


Birth  and  Apprenticeship  21 

lie  drank  out  all  the  full  cup  of  wine.'  This  anecdote  is 
so  characteristic  of  the  man  and  of  the  times  that  I  have 
quoted  it,  although,  to  modern  minds,  the  spirit  of  the 
robust  convert  savours  less  of  devout  troth-pledging 
than  of  ribaldry.  ^ 


22  Ben  J  on  son 


CHAPTER  II. 

FIRST   PERIOD   OF   MAXHOOD. 

Jonson's  duel  with  Gabriel  Spencer  concludes  tlie  first 
chapter  of  his  life.  The  same  incident,  by  cutting  him 
adrift  from  Henslowe,  and  forcing  him  to  seek  support 
elsewhere,  determined  the  next  stage  of  his  literary 
career.  This  begins  with  the  production  of  'Every 
Man  in  his  Humour,'  at  the  close  of  1598,  and  ends 
with  his  temporary  withdrawal  from  the  theatre  in 
1616.  During  this  second  broad  period,  Jonson  deve- 
loped his  dramatic  style,  and  produced  all  the  master- 
pieces on  which  his  fame  now  rests.  Professionally,  he 
was  attached  to  no  one  company.  "We  find  him  writing 
in  turn  for  the  Chamberlain's  men,  for  the  Children  of 
the  Chapel  Royal,  for  the  Admiral's  men,  for  the  Chil- 
dren of  her  Majesty's  Revels,  for  the  Lady  Elizabeth's 
servants  ;  but  most  frequently  of  all,  for  the  Chamber- 
lain's men,  or,  as  they  came  to  be  called,  the  King's 
men — that  is  to  say,  for  Shakespeare's  company. 

I  may  here  pause  to  consider  the  effect  of  Jonson's 
early  training  on  his  genius.  Of  all  the  playwrights 
who  were  his  contemporaries,  he  was  the  only  born 
Londoner.  If  we  except  the  brief  episode  of  his  soldier- 
ae*Low  Countries,  he  had  hardly  quitted  the 


First  Period  of  Manhood  23 

purlieus  of  the  Tower  and  Westminster.  His  time,  as 
a  boy^  passed  between  severe  studies  at  school  and  per^ 
anibulations  of  the  City  streets^  Though  the  country 
at  that  period  neighboured  so  closely  on  the  capital 
that  an  active  lad  might  escape  into  the  fields  between 
school-hours,  yet_the  dominant  influences  of  Jonso^.'s 
growing  years  were  far  from  rural.  Tjown-bred  and 
Ibred  to  scholarship,  he  underwent  influences  very 
different  from  those  which  shaped  the  mind  of  Shake- 


speafe  m  his  home  at  Stratford.  We.  ought  not  to 
insist  too  crudely  on  this  contrast.  Temperament  must  ( 
in  all  cases  be  reckoned  more  powerful  than  education^  ( 
and  it  may  be  remembered  that  Keats  was  a  cockney. 
Yet  no  fair  critic  will  contend  that  the  brilliant  parallel 
drawn  by  Mr.  Swinburne  between  '  Bartholomew  Fair ' 
and  '  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  ' — '  the  purely 
farcical  masterpieces  of  the  town-bred  schoolboy  and  the 
country  lad  ' — is  overstrained.  Jonson,  exploring  the, 
classics  with  Camden  for  his  guide  in  the  heyday  of  the 
Sifglish  Eenaissance,  formed  an  ideal  of  art  different 
from  that  of  his  great  comrade,^  who  learned  ^  small 
Latin  and  less  Greek^  under  the  ferule  of  some  village 
Holofernes.  Hours  of  leisure  passed  at  Smithfield,  _  or 
among  the  wherries  of  the  Thames,  developed  gensibili- 
ties  and  powers  of  observation  in  Jonson  alien  to  those 
which  expanded  in  the  soul  of  Shakespeare  upon  the 
banks  of  Avon,  or  in  the  glades  of  Charlcote. 

We  have  good  right  to  maintain  that  Jonson's  first 
real  start  in  his  playwright's  craft  was  given  him  by 
Shakespeare.  Henslowe  cast  him  adrift  after  Septem- 
ber 1^98.  Before  the  end  of  that  year, '  Every  Man  in 
his  HuiVour '  had  been  put  upon  the  stage  by  the  Clinm- 


24  Ben  Jonson 

berlain's  men.  Old  tradition  affirms  that  Shakespearo 
induced  his  company  to  buy  and  represent  the  play.  It 
is  certain  that  he  acted  in  it.  Nothing,  therefore,  fits 
the  facts  so  well  as  this  tradition,  which  may  conse- 
quently be  accepted  as  authentic.  Shakespeare  was 
Jonson's  elder  by  nine  years.  He  was  now  in  full  pos- 
session of  the  public,  having  already  produced  some  of 
the  best  work  in  his  first  manner,  and  risen  to  a  post  of 
influence  and  emolument  in  the  company  which  used 
the  Curtain,  the  Globe,  and  the  Blackfriars.  He  had 
no  reason  to  be  jealous  of  Jonson,  or  to  fear  him  as  a 
literary  rival.  His  interests  as  a  shareholder  in  the 
theatres  he  worked  for.  made  him  rather  eager  to  secure 
the  first-fruits  of  rising  genius  for  his  troop.  We  can 
see  nothing  strange  in  Shakespeare's  welcoming  so 
robust  a  recruit  as  Jonson.  Yet,  if  one  should  deign  to 
remember  the  nonsense  vented  by  purblind  critics  at  the 
end  of  the  last  century  touching  Jonson's  animosity 
against  Shakespeare,  it  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  believe 
that  their  intimacy  began  by  an  act  of  kindness  and  of 
business-like  discernment  on  the  latter 's  part, 

I  shall  take  this  occasion  to  express  my  firm  convic- 
tion that  Jonson  harboured  no  envy,  malignity,  or 
hostile  feeling  of  any  kind  for  Shakespeare.  The  two 
poets  differed  in  their  method  as  playwrights.  Jonson 
was  not  the  man  to  acknowledge  that  Shakespeare's 
method  was  superior  to  his  own ;  nor  did  the  opinion  of 
cultivated  people  in  their  times  tend  to  this  conclusion. 
He  therefore  felt  himself  at  liberty  to  criticise  a  drama- 
tist, whom  now  we  place  in  all  essential  points  above 
him.  But  when  we  examine  his  critique  of  Shake- 
speare, what3  do  we  find  ?     The  ejithiisiastic  panegyric 


/ 

First  Period  of  Manhood  ^5 

whicli  introduces  Heminge  and  Condell's  folio  of  Shake- 
speare's plays,  and  which  is  reproduced  in  Jonson's 
'  Underwoods/  proves  that  though  his  ideal  of  art  dif- 
fered from  that  of  Shakespeare^  though  he  rated  himself 
liighly  on  attainments  which  the  nobler  poet  lacked,  yet 
he  hailed  in  his  great  comrade  a  tragic  and  a  comic 
dramatist,  born  '  not  of  an  age  but  for  all  time,'  who 
might  compete  with  ^  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty 
Rome  sent  fgrth,'  and  with  all  that  had  been  furnished 
from  their  ashes  by  the  feebler  poets  of  a  colder 
clime.  In  his  '  Discoveries,'  those  '  last  drops  from 
Jonson's  quill,'  as  they  have  been  quaintly  styled,  he 
censured  Shakespeare  in  very  moderate  terms  for 
unpruned  luxuriance  and  careless  control  over  his  own 
powers  of  wit  and  eloquence.  Who  will  now  contend 
that  Jonson  was  not  justified  in  this  criticism  ?  Yet  he 
immediately  added:  ^I  loved  the  man,  and  do  honour 
his  memory,  on  this  side  idolatry,  as  much  as  any.  He 
was  indeed  honest,^  and  of  an  open  and  full  nature  ;  had 
an  excellent  phantasy,  brave  notions,  and  gentle  expres- 
sions ;  wherein  he  flowed  with  that  facility,  that  some- 
times it  was  necessary  he  should  be  stopped  :  Snfjiam- 
inandus  erat,  as  Augustus  said  of  Haterius.'  If  we 
remember  that  Jonson  said  of  himself  to  Drummond^ 
that  ^  of  all  styles  he  loved  most  to  be  named  HonesL' 
It  will  appear  tliat  he  meant  in  the  passagfe  I  have  just 
quoted  to  yay  the  hiofhest  tribute  to  Shakespeare  as  a 
man.  "^Ancl  could  any  poet  say  more  of  a  brother  poet's 
gemus  than  is  expressed  in  those  apostrophes,  the  most 
impassioned  Jonson  ever  penned  ? — '  Sweet  Swan  ot 
Avon ! '  '  Soul  of  the  age  ! '  '  Thou  star  of  poets ! ' 

It  was  under  Shak^spe^re'g  auspices,  and  with  '  Every 


26  Ben  Jonson 

]\Ian  in  liis  Humour/  then,  that  Jonson  made  Ms  first 
decisive  mark  upon  the  public  stage  of  London.  This 
is  the  earliest  comedy,  which  he  acknowledged ;  for  '  The 
Case  is  Altered  '  was  not  included  in  his  own  folio  edition 
of  plays.  The  facts  are  noticeable.  As  the  title  of  the 
comedy  indicates,  Jonson  now  entered  upon  his  peculiar 
field  of  liumours.  It  is  our  business  to  understand  what 
was  the  common  meaning  of  this  phrase  in  his  time, 
and  how  he  thought  fit  to  employ  it.  At  the  date 
when  he  was  writing,  humour  was  on  everybody's  lip§ 
to  denote  whim,  oddity,  conceited  turn  of  though^,^jjr^ 
special  partiality  in  any  person.  We  may  remember  the 
fatiguing  use  which  Nym  makes  of  it  in  Shakespeare's 
'  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  ' :  '  He  was  gotten  in  drink  : 
is  not  the  humour  conceited  ? '  '  The  good  humour  is  to 
steal  at  a  minute's  rest.'  ^  The  anchor  is  deep  :  will  that 
humour  pass  ?  '  ^  The  humour  rises  \  it  is  good  :  humour 
me  the  angels.'  '  I  will  discuss  the  humour  of  this  love 
to  Page.'  Lucky  instinct  made  Jonson  choose  a  word  so 
much  in  vogue  to  designate  the  kind  of  comedy  he 
aimed  at.  It  helped  to  bring  his  play  into  notice,  and 
it  also  defined  the  region  of  his  art.  In  the  prologue  to 
'  Every  Man  in  his  Humour  '  he  tells  the  audience  that 
it  is  the  proper  end  of  the  comedian — 

To  sport  with  human  follies,  not  with  crimes. 

Here  he  seems  to  have  imagined  that  by  ^  humour '  the 
public  would  understand  '  human  folly,'  as  differenced 
from  mere  afffectation  on  the  one  hand,  and  from  crime 
on  the  other.  Soon,  however,  he  felt  the  necessity  of 
explaining  more  precisely  his  own  interpretation  of  the 
leading  phrase.    This  he  did  in  the  induction  to  ^  Every 


First  Period  of  Manhood  27 

Man  out  of  his  Humour.'  The  passage  throws  so  much 
light  upon  Jonson's  conception  of  character  that  I  shall 
transcribe  it : — 

In  every  human  body, 
The  choler,  melancholy,  phlegm,  and  blood, 
By  reason  that  they  flow  continually 
In  some  one  part,  and  are  not  contment, 
Receive  the  name  of  humours.     Now  thus  far 
It  may,  by  metaphor,  apply  itself 
Unto  the  general  disposition : 
As  when  some  one  peculiar  quality 
Doth  so  possess  a  man,  that  it  doth  draw 
All  his  affects,  his  spirits,  and  his  powers, 
In  his  confluctions,  all  to  run  one  way, 
This  may  be  truly  said  to  be  a  humour. 

It  appears  from  these  lines  that  Jonson's  first  conception 
of  humour  as  a  master  element  in  character  was  con- 
nected with  the  medieval  hypothesis  of  four  fluid  tem- 
peraments. He  believed  that  ^  choler,  melancholy, 
phlegm,  and  blood '  governed  all  classes  of  men  in  several 
degrees ;  and  upon  this  theory  he  built  up  a  scheme  of 
human  foibles  and  proclivities,  which  only  differs  from 
Pope's  scheme  of  the  ^  Ruling  Passion '  in  so  far  as  it  is 
a  little  more  physical  and  less  metaphysical  than  the 
nicely  expressed  doctrine  of  the  '  Essay  on  Man.'  That 
he  took  humour  in  its  literal  sense  of  a  controlling 
quality  in  the  vital  fluids  appears  from  Cob's  vulgar 
caricature  of  the  phrase :  '  Nay,  I  have  my  rheum.' 
Nym  would  have  said,  ^  Nay,  I  have  my  humour.'  He 
also  sought  to  bring  the  public  back  to  a  right  notion 
of  its  value.  The  word  had  become  a  mere  slang  term 
for  any  eccentricity : — 

Daily  to  see  how  the  poor  innocent  word 
Is  racked  and  tortured  ! 


28  Ben  J  on  son 

The  wKoIe  web  of  his  comedy  was  therefore  woven 
on  the  warp  of  humour  apprehended  as  the  service  paid 
by  imperfect,  and  consequently  comic,  characters  to 
their  physical  temperament.  Toward  the  close  of  his 
career  Jonson  returned  to  the  same  topic.  In  the 
induction  to  '  The  Magnetic  Lady '  we  read :  '  The 
author  beginning  his  studies  of  this  kind  with  "  Every 
Man  in  his  Humour ;  "  and  after,  ^'  Every  Mali  out  of 
his  Humour ; "  and  since,  continuing  in  all  his  plays, 
especially  those  of  the  comic  thread,  whereof  the  '^  New 
Inn  "  was  the  last,  some  recent  humours  still,  or  manners 
of  men,  that  went  along  with  the  times.'  This  suffi- 
ciently proves  that  Jonson  conceived  humour,  which  he 
first  apprehended  in  the  narrow  sense  of  personal  tem- 
perament, and  thence  translated  to  the  wider  sphere  of 
social  manners,  to  be  the  proper  medium  for  the  comic 
playwright.  Dryden  summed  up  his  position  in  one 
paragraph  :  ^  Among  the  English,  by  humour  is  meant 
some  extravagant  habit,  passion  or  affection,  particular 
to  some  one  person,  by  the  oddness  of  which  he  is  im- 
mediately distinguished  from  the  rest  of  men ;  which, 
being  lively  and  naturally  represented,  most  frequently 
begets  that  malicious  pleasure  in  the  audience  which  is 
testified  by  laughter ;  as  all  things  which  are  deviations 
from  custom  are  ever  the  aptest  to  produce  it.  The 
description  of  these  humours,  drawn  from  the  knowledge 
and  observation  of  particular  persons,  was  the  peculiar 
genius  and  talent  of  Ben  Jonson.' 

The  success  of  'Every  Man  in  his  Humour'  will 
surprise  no  one  who  has  followed  the  varied  and  yet 
simple  action  of  this  lively  comedy.  It  is  written  with 
all  Jonson's  preci^Qn  ancj  jn  bis  pecuUargianner ;  but 


First  Period  of  Manhood  29 

it  lacks  that  rigidity  which  his  manner  afterwards 
assumed..  Though  the  parts  of  the  knavish  servant  anrf" 
his  young  master  remind  us  of  the  Roman  theatre, 
Jonson  has  recast  them  in  accordance  with  English 
character  and  custom.  His  erudition,  indeed,  in  this 
play  makes  itself  less  prominently  felt  than  in  some  of 
his  later  masterpieces.  Kitely,  as  the  jealous  husband, 
deserves  a  place  beside  Ford  in  Shakespeare's  '  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor.'  Bobadil  is  a  fit  companion  for 
ParoUes  and  Bessus,  and  is  superior  in  comic  effect  to 
the  swaggering  Tucca  of  Jonson's  '  Poetaster.'  Brain- 
worm  may  be  regarded  as  a  meritorious  study  for  the  far 
more  masterly  portrait  of  Mosca  in  '  Volpone.'  Mathew 
and  Stephen,  the  town  and  country  gulls,  lead  that  long 
line  of  fools  to  which  Sogliardo,  Lafoole,  Fitzdotterel. 
Kestril,  and  Cokes  belong.  In  depicting  the  specific 
qualities  of  such  simpletons,  Jonson  was  particularly 
happy ;  and  though  none  of  them  approach  the  humour 
of  Shallow  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek,  they  exhibit  his 
faculty  of  observing  and  reproducing  delicate  shades  of 
difference  in  superficial  no  less  than  in  stronp^ly  marked 
personalities. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  speak  at  length  of  Jonson's 
plays  while  sketching  his  life,  but  rather  to  leave  the 
consideration  of  his  merits  as  poet  and  dramatist  for  a 
future  chapter.  Yet  I  may  point  out  those  passages 
which  throw  distinct  light  upon  his  character,  his  con- 
ception of  the  playwright's  function,  and  his  relations 
to  contemporary  writers.  Unlike  Shakespeare,  he 
supplies  material  of  this  kind  in  abundance.  He  seems 
to  have  understood  and  appreciated  the  function  of  the 
Parabasis  in  Greek  comedy,  where  the  author  addressed 


30  Ben  J  on  son 

tlie  audience  in  his  own  person  through  the  mouth  of 
the  Chorus.  Having  no  chorus,  Jonson  made  full  use 
of  Dedication,  Prologue,  Epilogue,  Induction,  and  Dia- 
logue between,  the  acts — devices  whereby  the  poet 
was  enabled  to  communicate  his  private  opinions  and 
his  critical  observations  to  the  public.  The  first  im- 
portant manifesto  of  this  kind  is  the  prologue  to  '  Every 
Man  in  his  Humour.'  Here  Jonson,  following  in  the 
track  of  Whetstone  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  sweepingly 
condemns  the  inartistic  method  of  the  pure  romantic 
school,  and  proclaims  his^ntention  of  restricting  comedy 
to  her  proper  function  of  depicting  the  common  actions 
of  men,  personages  suited  to  the  mirthful  stage,  and 
foibles  of  humanity.  The  play  was  originally  brought 
out  with  Italian  names  for  the  characters  and  consider- 
able differences  in  the  scenes.  One  passage,  which 
Jonson  omitted  when  he  recast  the  piece  as  published 
in  the  first  folio,  so  admirably  expresses  the  lofty  ideal 
he  had  formed '  of  poetry  that  I  shall  insert  it  here. 
Lorenzo,  or  Young  Knowell,  defends  the  inspired  art  of 
song  from  the  slanders  brought  upon  it  by  its  ignorant 
professors : — 

I  can  refell  opinion,  and  approve 
The  state  of  poesy,  such  as  it  is, 
Blessed,  eternal,  and  most  true  divine : 
Indeed,  if  you  will  look  on  poesy, 
As  she  appears  in  many,  poor  and  lame, 
Patch'd  up  in  remnants  and  old  worn-out  rags, 
Half  starv'd  for  want  of  her  peculiar  food 
Sacred  invention  ;  then,  I  must  confirm 
Both  your  conceit  and  censure  of  her  merit : 
ri  But  view  her  in  her  glorious  ornaments 
Attired  in  the  majesty  of  art. 
Set  high  in  spirit  with  the  precious  taste 


First  Period  of  Manhood   -y  3^   . 

Of  sweet  philosophy  ;  and,  which  is  most,    ^-^^^ 

Crown'd  with  the  rich  traditions  of  a  soul, 

That  hates  to  have  her  dignity  prophaned 

With  any  relish  of  an  earthly  thought, 

Oh  then  how  proud  a  presence  doth  she  bear 

Then  is  she  like  herself,  fit  to  be  seen 

Of  none  but  grave  and  consecrated  eyes. 

THs  theme  is  developed  with  even  greater  ardour 
in  the  ^  Poetaster.'  The  situation  is  nearly  the  same. 
Young  Ovid,  devoted  to  poetry,  and  persecuted  by  an 
over-anxious  father,  bursts  into  an  impassioned  Apology 
for  his  Art. 

There  was,  in  truth,  no  poet  of  the  age  who  came^^,-- 
near  to  Jonson  in  this  deep  conviction  of  the  sacred-     i 
ness  and  gravity  of  his  vocation.     He  was  persuaded     j 
that  the  playwright,  then  too  often  scorned  as  panderer     • 
bo  vulgar  pleasures,  had  a  serious  function  to  discharge. 
The  poetry  of  the  stage,  he  held,  must  aim  not  merely   |   - 
at  delight,  but  at  instruction  also.     The  suffrage  of  the    j  /^ 
people  must  be  conquered,  not  courted.     Dramas  must   / 
be  written  not  to  charm  the  popular  ear,  but  to  educate  ' , 
it.     This  lofty  doctrine  he  expounded  with  too  much 
arrogance   and   self-conceit.      He   insy^lted  the  public 
whom  he  strove  to  benefit,  and  raised  animosity  by  the 
contempt   he    poured   on   individuals.     We,    however, 
who  are  far  removed  from  the  literary  discords  of  those 
times,  can  peruse  with  calmness  and  enjoy  the  manly 
eloquence  of  that  great  dedication  to  the  Sister  Univer- 
sities which  forms  the  preface  to  ^  Volpone.'     Bating 
some  personalities  and  blustering  defiances  which  im- 
pair the  dignity  of  the  oration,  this  high-built  edifice  of 
ceremonious  language  deserves^  to__rank  with  Milton's 
sublime  periods  upon  the  poet's  priesthood,  and  with 


3^  Ben  JoNsoM 

Sidney's  lofty  vindication  of  tlie  poet's  claim  to  pro- 
phecy. Unhappily,  the  piece,  which  ought  to  find  its 
honoured  place  in  every  anthology  of  English  prose, 
is  both  too  long  to  quote  in  full,  and  also  too  closely 
wrought  to  bear  abstraction  of  its  well-weighed  sen- 
tences without  the  risk  of  mutilation.  Yet  a  few  phrases 
shall  be  culled,  in  order  to  define  the  haughty  position 
assumed  by  JonsonJoward_th^_Je^er_Jty  of  writers  in. 
his  age,  and  the  magnificent  audacity  with  which  he 
relied  on  his  own  force  to  stem  the  tide  of  ruin  menacinor 
the  art  he  reverenced.  'If  men  will  impartially,  and 
not  asquint,  look  toward  the  offices  and  function  of  a 
poet,  they  will  easily  conclude  to  themselves  the  im- 
possibility of  any  man's  being  the  good  poet  without 
being  first  the  good  man.  He  that  is  said  to  be  able  to 
inform  young  men  to  all  good  disciplines,  inflame  grown 
men  to  all  great  virtues,  keep  old  men  in  their  best  and 
supreme  state,  or,  as  they  decline  to  childhood,  recover 
them  to  their  first  strength;  that  comes  forth  the 
interpreter  and  arbiter  of  nature,  a  teacher  of  things 
divine  no  less  than  human,  a  master  in  manners ;  and 
can  alone,  or  with  a  few,  effect  the  business  of  mankind  : 
this,  I  take  him,  is  no  subject  for  pride  and  ignorance 
to  exercise  their  railing  rhetoric  upon.'  Having  thus 
vehemently  and  proudly  sketched  the  function  of  the 
sacred  bard  as  teacher  xjfworld-wisdom,  he  paints  the 
iBaser  brood  of  poetasters-^knaves  who  batten  upon 
public  vices,  traduce  private  reputations,  and  feed  like 
flesh-flies  on  the  carrion  of  vulgar  applause. '  '  I  choose 
rather  to  live  graved  in  obscurity,  than  share  with  them 
in  so  preposterous  a  fame.j  After  dwelling  at  length 
upon  the  terms  of  this  disdainful  abjuration,  he  spreads 


First  PEt^iob  Of  Manhood 

/his  wings  once  more  for  a  yet  more  giddy  fiiglit. 
'  Wherein,  if  my  muses  be  true  to  me,  I  shall  raise  the 
despised  head  of  poetry  again,  and  stripping  her  out  of 
those  rotten  and  base  rags  wherewith  the  times  have 
adulterated  her  form,  restore  her  to  her  primitive  habit, 
feature,  and  majesty,  and  render  her  worthy  to  be 
embraced  and  kissed  of  all  the  great  and  master-spirits 

\of  our  world.' 

I  might  draw  a  parallel  between  these  passages  and 
the  eulogy  of  love  which  Jonson  put  into  the  mouth  of 
Lovel  in  '  The  New  Inn.'  Pure  love  and  sacred  poetry 
walk  hand  in  hand  like  sisters  in  the  work  of  Jonson  and 
of  Milton.  The  art  of  song  for  them  resembles  august 
and  honourable  matrimony,  *  mother  of  lawful  sweets 
and  unshamed  mornings.'  Many  of  their  brother  bards 
made  her  a  wanton,  public  to  the  lusts  of  a  lascivious 
court  and  vulgar  people,  reaping  repentance,  surfeit,  and 
such  tears  of  shame  as  Dry  den  shed  for  his  past  errors 
on  the  stage.  It  is,  indeed,  not  a  little  curious  to  con- 
trast the  tone  of  Dryden,  Jonson's  next  renowned  suc- 
cessor on  the  laureate's  throne  and  next  dictator  over 
literary  London,  with  the  grave  and  reverent  language 
of  this  elder  playwright.     Jonson  was  a  Khadamanthus 

;  of  justice  ;  Dryden,  a  parasite  of  popular  caprice.     Jon- 
son trampled,  Dryden  fawned,  on  public  taste.     While 
Jonson  wrote  as  we  have  seen  of  poetry,  Dryden  thus 
impudently  confessed  his  mean  and  servile  aims  :  '  My;^ 
chief  endeavours  are  to  delight  the  age  in  which  I  live.' 

*  To  please  the   people  jiught  to  Jbe  the   poet's   aim.' 

*  The  humour  of  the  people  is  now  for  comedy ;  there- 
fore, in  hope  to  please  them,  I  write  comedies  rather 
than  serious  plays/    What  Dryden's  compliance  brought 

D 


34  Ben  Jonson 

liim  was  the  bitter  but  superb  remorse  expressed  in  the 
^  Ode  on  Mrs.  Anne  Killigrew/  the  sad  but  manly  dis- 
couragement which  tinges  the  '  Epistle  to  Mr.  Congreve ' 
at  its  close  with  gloom.  What  Jonson  gained  from  his 
defiant  tone  of  truculent  yet  generous  self-approbation 
will  appear  when  we  examine  more  closely  into  his 
attitude  as  a  dramatist  during  this  first  period  of  his 
manhood. 

Jonson  had  formed  a  noble  ideal  of  the  poet,  con- 
scious  of  his  high  vocation ;  and  he  was  right  In  judging 
that  the  large  majority  of  contemporary  playwrights, 
scribblers  for  cheaply  earned  small  gains  upon  the 
public  stage,  were  unworthy  of  the  name  of  poet,  ^et 
he  was  incapable  of  maintaining^  the  dignity  of  the 
,  poetic  art  without  too  loudly  asserting  his  own  supe- 
riority.  He  ideutified  the  sacred  bard  with  his^Qwn 
person,  posed  before  the  world  as  Apollo's  high  priest, 
and  presumed  upon  his  erudition  to  affect  the  lordly 
airs  of  an  authentic  Aristarchus.  The  three  massive 
comedies  which  he  brought  out  in  tolerably  quick  suc- 
cession after  1598 — '  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour '  in 
1599,  ^Cynthia's  Revels'  in  1600,  and  'The  Poetaster' 
in  1601 — breathe  a  spirit  of  vainp-lory  and  a  fierce 
disdain  forl'ellovv-wOI'l^^rg'm  the  drarga,  which  exposed 
liim  to  savage  reprisals.  These  plays  were  styled  by 
him  ''  Comical  Satires.'  He  indulged  in  them  that 
genius  for  crude  a,nd  also  cruel  caricature  which  may 
be  observed  in  milder  form  in  '  The  Case  is  Altered.' 
Not  only  were  the  follies  of  the  Court  and  town  freely 
castigated  with  touches  which  probably  wrung  the 
withers  of  now  forgotten  jades;  but  living  men, 
his  professional  comrades  and  social  equals,  were  also 


First  Period  of  Manhood  35 

ridiculed.  Henslowe,  whose  pay  he  took,  with  whom  he 
quarrelled  and  made  peace  again  by  turns,  is  odiously 
portrayed  as  a  slave-merchant,  under  whose  protection 
the  morals  of  play-acting  boys  were  not  safe.  Marston, 
the  disciple  who  had  borrowed  from  him  a  pedantic 
strain  of  turgid  blank  verse,  and  Dekker,  with  whom 
he  had  collaborated  in  dramatic  journey-work,  are 
insulted  by  sarcasms,  now  almost  utterly  devoid  of 
pungency,  but  at  the  moment  exquisitely  irritating. 
What  made  this  waspish  attack  upon  his  neighbours 
more  insufferable,  and  also  exposed  it  more  helplessly 
to  retaliation,  was  the  swaggering  attitude  assumed  by 
the  self-dubbed  arbiter  of  taste.  Howevei'  we  may 
respect  Jonson  s  sterling  qualities  as  man  and  poet,  we 
cannot  read  the  prologue  and  epilogue  to  '  Cynthia's 
Revels '  without  resenting  its  strain  of  self-laudation.  ^ 
The  three  characters,  used  by  him  as  masks  in  the  three 
'  Comical  Satires,'  namely,  xisper,  Crites,  Horace,  make 
us  justly  angry.  We  cannot  stomach  the  writer  who 
thus  dared  to  praise  and  puff  himself.  Let  us  hear 
each  of  them  speak.     Asper  says  :— 

My  soul 

Was  never  ground  into  such  oily  colours, 

To  flatter  vice,  and  daub  iniquity  : 

But  with  an  armed  and  resolved  hand 

I'll  strip  the  ragged  follies  of  the  time 

Naked  as  at  their  birth  1 

And  with  a  whip  of  steel 

Print  wounding  lashes  in  their  iron  ribs. 

T  fear  no  mood  stamped  in  a  private  brow, 

When  I  am  pleased  to  unmask  a  public  vice. 

I  fear  no  strumpet's  drugs,  nor  ruffian's  stab, 

Should  I  detect  their  hateful  luxuries. 

Ohoj  jam  satis  !    Asper  runs  on  for  yet  another  score  of 


36  '.:•■     'Ben  joNsoi^ 

lines.  But  we  have  had  enough  of  him.  Let  him 
stand  down,  and  call  Crites  into  the  witness-box.  Vir- 
tue, the  Divine  Arete,  introduces  Crites,  and  describes 
him  thus : — 

Lo,  here  the  man,  celestial  Delia, 
Who  (like  a  circle  bounded  in  itself) 
Contains  as  much  as  man  in  fullness  may. 
Lo,  here  the  man,  who  not  of  usual -ea**lr,  ■ 
But  of  that  nobler  and  more -fl^cious  mould 
Which  Phoebus  self  doth  temper,  is  composed. 

Enough  of  Crites.  After  this  panegyric,  we  do  not 
need  his  long-winded  orations  and  self-laudatory  criti- 
cisms. Horace  appears  before  our  court  after  a  like 
fashion,  ushered  in  by  Virgil.  Horace  has  rivals, 
detractors,  contemporary  poets,  who  ought  not  to  pre- 
sume to  hold  a  candle  to  him.  So  Jonson  makes  Virgil 
trim  the  balance  thus : — 

If  they  should  confidently  praise  their  works, 
In  them  it  would  appear  inflation  ; 
Which  in  a  full  and  well-digested  man 
Cannot  receive  that  foul  abusive  name, 
But  the  fair  title  of  erection. 

To  put  it  plainly:  Jonson  maintained  that  he  had 
liberty  and  licence  to  commend  himself  and  abuse  his 
comrades  ;  but  if  they  commended  themselves,  this  was 
inflation ;  or  if  they  abused  him,  this  was  detraction  .,^_ 
He  placed  himself  in  an  impossible  position.  ■  Not 
without  reason  was  he  arraigned  for  ^  self-love,  arro- 
gancy,  impudence,  and  railing,'  as  also  for  ^filching  by 
translation.^  J-l'he  last  count  of  the  indictment  against 
Tonson  willTiave  to  be  treated  separately.  It  is  enough 
now  to  confine  attention  to  those  points  which  illustrato 
the  man's  aggressive  and  egotistic  personality. 


fl  UMJVERSn  T    a 

First  Period  0F^§i^^!9^^^^^ 


37 

These  pretensions  in  the  playwright  who  had  but 
recently  risen  from  low  station  into  the  clear  light  of 
fame,  excited  violent  hostility.  Jonson  was  attacked 
by  Marston  in  his  ^  Satires '  and  the  '  Scourge  of  Vil- 
lainy '  (1598),  probably  under  the  names  of  Tubrio, 
Torquatus,  and  Jack  of  Paris  Garden.  He  told  Drum- 
mond  that  '  he  had  many  quarrels  with  Marston,  beat 
him,  and  took  his  pistol  from  him,  wrote  his  Poet- 
aster on  him.  The  beginning  of  them  were  that  Mar- 
ston represented  him  on  the  stage,  in  his  youth  given 
to  venery.'  If  we  are  right  in  identifying  Marston's 
Tubrio  with  Jonson,  the  charge  is  sufficiently  attested ; 
for  Tubrio  is  a  very  loathsome  character,  and  one  that 
justly  called  a  drubbing  down  upon  its  author's  shoulders 
from  the  supposed  original.  But,  on  the  whole,  it 
would  appear  that  Jonson  was  the  first  to  open  fire  upon 
the  stage  against  Marston.  Some  critics,  to  whom  this 
literary  squabble  is  interesting,  have  identified  the  Clove 
of  '  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour '  with  Marston ; 
some,  and  these  perhaps  with  better  reason,  have 
detected  him  in  Carlo  Buffone  of  that  comedy.  It  is 
tolerably  certain  that  both  Marston  and  Dekker  felt 
themselves  lampooned  in  Hedon  and  An  aides  of  '  Cyn- 
thia's Eevels.'  Upon  this  they  burst  into  open  warfare. 
Jonson  was  caricatured  in  Marston's  '  Jack  .Drum's 
Entertainment '  (1600) ;  and  the  two  poets  together 
were  meditating  ^  Satiromastix,  or  the  Untrussing  of 
the  Humorous  Poet,'  when  Jonson  unmasked  the  heavy 
guns  of  his  'Poetaster'  (1601),  rendering  both  to  the 
best  of  his  ability  ridiculous  in  the  characters  of  Cris- 
pinus  and  Demetrius. 

The  match  between  Jonson  and  his  antagonists  was 


38  Ben  J  on  son 

unequal.  They  liad  to  be  contented  witli  ill-drawn 
caricatures  and  spiteful  innuendoes,  describing  Jonson  as 
^  a  mere  sponge,  nothing  but  humours  and  observation ; ' 
or  girding  at  him  for  ^  his  impudence  in  commending 
his  own  things,  and  for  his  translating.'  He,  on  the 
other  hand,  devoted  fifteen  weeks  of  serious  study  to 
the  preparation  of  a  comedy  which  should  not  only  crush 
his  opponents  by  sheer  weight,  but  should  also  display 
the  qualities  of  an  original  work  of  art.  Nothing  like 
the  '  Poetaster '  had  yet  appeared  upon  the  English 
stage ;  and  no  one  but  Jonson  then  possessed  the 
learning  and  dramatic  skill  which  were  necessary  for  its 
production.  In  the  '  Apologetical  Dialogue '  appended 
to  this  piece  he  describes  the  circumstances  of  its  com- 
position : — 

Three  years 
They  did  provoke  me  with  their  petulant  styles 
On  ever}''  stage  ;  and  I  at  last  unwilling, 
(    But  weary,  I  confess,  of  so  much  trouble, 

Thought  I  would  try  if  shame  could  win  upon  'em ; 
And  therefore  chose  Augustus  Caesar's  times, 
When  wit  and  arts  were  at  their  height  in  Rome  ; 
To  show  that  Virgil,  Horace,  and  the  rest 
'   Of  those  great  master-spirits,  did  not  want 
Detractors  then  or  practisers  against  them. 

The  design  was  well  conceived  and  vigorously  exe- 
cuted ;  for  Jonson  felt  at  home  among  the  poets  of  the 
Roman  Court,  and  never  trod  more  surely  than  when 
following  the  steps  of  some  illustrious  predecessor  whom 
lie  venerated.  The  play  has  three  strains  of  interest 
skilfully  intertwined.  The  one  consists  of  the  romance 
of  Ovid's  life,  his  obstinate  pursuit  of  poetry,  his  love 
for  Julia,  and  his  banishment  from  Rome.  The  second  in- 


First  Period  of  Manhood  39 

troduces  us  to  tlie  fashionable  society  of  fcHe  capital,  where 
Gallus,  Tibullus,  Propertius,  Ovid,  and  their  mistresses 
enjoy  the  sweets  of  culture  and  flirtation.  Into  this 
circle  Crispinus  intrudes — an  object  for  mirth,  a  magpie 
among  singing  birds.  The  third,  which  forms  the  gist 
of  the  comedy  in  its  satiric  aspect,  develops  the  con- 
spiracy of  Crispinus  and  Demetrius  against  Horace,  and 
his  arraignment  of  them  before  the  Court  of  Augustus, 
Virgil,  and  the  Roman  wits  in  conclave.  It  is  with  the 
last  of  these  three  motives  that  we  are  at  present  con- 
cerned. 

Crispinus,  in  whom  Marston  stands  manifest,  is  a 
Dad  poet,  using  the  most  hideous  jargon,  and  striving 
by  all  manner  of  disgraceful  means  to  be  received 
among  the  great.  The  liveliest  scene  of  the  play  is  one 
which  Jonson  has  closely  imitated  from  Horace.  We  find 
the  lyrist  in  his  favourite  haunt  upon  the  Via  Sacra,  plan- 
ning an  ode  to  Mecaenas.  Crispinus  sidles  up  to  him, 
wearies  him  with  importunity,  and  sticks  like  a  burr 
in  spite  of  broad  hints  and  palpable  insults.  At  last 
Horace  is  relieved  by  bailiffs,  who  arrest  the  poetaster 
for  debt.  Meanwhile  the  key-note  to  the  character  of 
Marston  has  been  struck.  Demetrius  is  described  by  a 
player  in  words  which  were  but  too  applicable  to  the 
needy  author  of  '  The  Honest  Whore.'  '  His  doublet's 
a  little  decayed ;  he  is  otherwise  a  very  simple,  honest 
fellow,  sir,  one  Dem^etrius,  a  dresser  of  plays  about  the 
town  here;  we  have  hired  him  to  abuse  Horace,  and 
bring  him  in,  in  a  play,  with  all  his  gallants.'  These 
are  the  pair  whom  Horace  arraigns  before  Cassar  on  the 
charge  of  '  taxing  him  falsely  of  self-love,  arrogancy, 
impudence,  railing,  and  filching  by  translation.' 


40  Ben  Jonson 

Augustus  is  discovered  seated  on  his  throne.  Around 
him  are  grouped  MecaBnas,  Gallus,  Tibullus,  and  Horace. 
Ovid  has  been  banished  to  the  Euxine,  and  his  seat  is 
empty.  Virgil  is  momently  expected  from  Campania. 
While  waiting  for  him,  the  prince  and  his  Court  discuss 
the  lofty  place  of  poetry  in  a  well-ordered  State.  Cassar 
pronounces  poetry  to  be-^ 

Of  all  the  faculties  of  earth 
The  most  abstract  and  perfect ;  if  she  be 
True-born  and  nursed  with  all  the  sciences. 
She  can  so  mould  Rome  and  her  monuments 
Within  the  liquid  marble  of  her  lines, 
That  they  shall  stand  fresh  and  miraculous, 
Even  when  they  mix  with  innovating  dust ; 
In  her  sweet  streams  shall  our  brave  Eoman  spirits 
Chase  and  swim  after  death,  with  their  choice  deeds 
Shining  on  their  white  shoulders. 

At  length  a  messenger  arrives,  and  says  that  Virgil 
is  at  hand.  Caesar  turns  to  the  poets  at  his  side,  and 
asks  their  opinion  of '  Eome's  honour.'  Horace,  Tibul- 
lus,  and  Gallus  give  their  verdict  in  well-weighed  pas- 
sages of  eulogy.  It  is  probable  that  by  Virgil  Jonson 
intended  some  dramatic  poet  of  his  day ;  and,  on  the 
whole,  his  description  suits  none  better  than  Shake- 
speare. 

At  this  point  Virgil  enters,  takes  the  chair  set  for 
him  at  Caesar's  right  hand,  and  begins  to  read  from  his 
fourth  ^neid,  a  part  of  which  Jonson  has  translated 
in  the  stiff  and  literal  manner  he  affected.  He  has  not 
gone  far  before  Crispinus  and  Demetrius,  attended  by 
the  braggadocio  Captain  Tucca,  are  ushered  in  with 
libels  upon  Horace.  One  of  these  is  a  striking  parody 
gf    Marston's   satire,    the    other   a   piece    of  jingling 


First  Period  of  Manhood  41 

doggerel.  The  Augustan  poets  form  a  court,  and  acquit 
Horace  triumphantly  of  the  charges  brought  against 
him.  Demetrius  is  forced  to  confess  that  he  was  only 
envious  of  the  greater  poet's  fame  and  better  company. 
Crispinus  has  a  dose  of  hellebore  administered,  which 
makes  him  vomit  up  his  crude  and  stilted  jphrases. 
The  passage,  humiliating  enough  to  Marston,  has  a 
certain  Eabelaisian  humour.  We  are  spared  none  of 
the  disgusting  details  of  sickness,  and  the  ugly-sound- 
ing words  come  up  with  comic  clenches.  The  curious 
thing,  however,  is  that  many  words  which  Jonson  made 
his  detractor  spue  forth,  such  as  ^  retrograde,  reciprocal, 
defunct,  spurious,  clumsy,  strenuous,'  are  now  in  common 
use ;  while  he  himself  employed  equally  cacophonous 
and  now  quite  obsolete  expressions.  '  Tartarous,  re- 
percussive,  arride,  salt  (from  saltus,  a  leap),  copy  (from 
copia,  abundance),'  for  example,  have  well-nigh  perished 
with  the  breath  that  uttered  them. 

The  '  Poetaster '  failed  to  extinguish  Marston  and 
Dekker.  In  the  same  year,  1601,  they  untrussed  their 
censor  in  ^  Satiromastix.'  But  it  brought  a  hornets' 
nest  about  the  poet's  ears.  Lawyers  took  umbrage  at 
what  Ovid  said  about  them,  and  threatened  Jonson  with 
an  action.  Soldiers  fancied  that  Tucca's  buffooneries 
were  meant  to  insult  their  dignity.  Playgoers  and 
playwrights,  already  ridiculed  by  Jonson  in  preceding 
comedies,  raised  a  shriek  at  the  still  more  savage 
onslaught  of  this  drama.  Finally,  the  whole  profession 
of  actors  and  stage-managers  felt  themselves  mortally 
wounded  by  the  loathsome  caricature  of  Histrio  (Hen- 
slowe),  and  by  the  parody  of  players  in  the  declamation 
of  Tucc£t's  two  pages,     Jonson  found  it  necessary  to 


42  Ben  Jonson 

defend  himself  in  an  Apology,  which,  however,  under 
his  touch  became  a  new  declaration  of  war.  Assuming  . 
the  person  of  Horace,  he  had  sought  to  pose  as  a  long- 
suffering  man,  not  easily  moved  to  wrath,  merciful  to  \ 
his  foes,  indulgent  to  the  foibles  of  the  weak,  capable 
of  speaking  the  truth  without  flattery  to  sovereigns, 
dealing  full  measure  of  praise  to  his  literary  peers,  and 
finally  ^  the  worst  accuser  under  heaven.'  He  now  at- 
tempted to  vindicate  his  style  of  satire  : — ■ 

I  never  writ  that  piece 
More  innocent  or  empty  of  offence. 
Some  salt  it  had,  but  neither  tooth  nor  gall. 
I  used  no  name.     My  books  have  still  been  taught 
To  spare  the  persons  and  to  speak  the  vices. 

The  lawyers  he  pacified  with  compliments.  To  the 
soldiers  he  repeated  lines  from  an  epigram  which  he 
had  written : — 

I  swear  by  your  true  friend,  my  muse,  I  love 

Your  great  profession,  which  I  once  did  prove  j 

And  did  not  shame  it  with  my  actions  then, 

No  more  than  I  dare  now  do  with  my  pen. 

The  players  were  assured  that  he  had  been  discri- 
minating in  his  satire  of  their  least  worthy  members. 
The  poets  were  threatened  with  what  he  could  do  if  he 
chose  : — 

They  know  I  dare 
To  spurn  or  baffle  them ;  or  squirt  their  eyes 
With  ink  or  urine ;  or  I  could  do  worse. 
Armed  with  Archilochus'  fury,  write  Iambics, 
Should  make  the  desperate  lashers  hang  themselves  ; 
Rhime  them  to  death,  as  they  do  Irish  rats 
In  drumming  tunes. 

For  a   so-called  '  Apologetical   Dialogue,'  this  and 


First  Period  of  Manhood  43 

three  dozen  or  so  more  lines  of  equally  vitriolic  railing 
was  pretty  good.     The  invective  ended : — 

But  I  leave  the  monsters 
To  their  own  fate.    And,  since  the  Comic  Mu 
Hath  proved  so  ominous  to  me,  I  will  try 
If  Tragedy  have  a  more  kind  aspect. 

Jonson  kept  this  resolution,  and  produced  no  comedy 
again  until  1605. 

Meanvv^hile,  in  order  to  conclude  the  history  of  this 
literary  squabble,  we  are  surprised  to  find  Marston  con- 
tributing at  the  end  of  1601,  together  with  Jonson, 
Chapman,  and  Shakespeare,  to  the  'Phoenix  and  the 
Turtle.'  The  last  word  Jonson  had  spoken  on  him  was 
fchat  he  was  : — 

Improbior  satiram  scribente  cinaedo. 

In  1604  he  dedicated  his  revised  comedy,  '  The  Mal- 
content,' to  Jonson  in  a  stately  Latin  inscription ;  and 
early  in  1605,  when  he  and  Chapman  were  thrown  into 
prison  for  some  reflections  on  the  Scots  in  '  Eastward 
Ho,'  Jonson  joined  them.  The  incident  is  so  curious 
that  it  shall  here  be  related  in  Jonson's  own  words  to 
Drummond,  although  its  insertion  breaks  the  proper 
chronological  narration  of  his  life.  '  He  was  delated 
by  Sir  James  Murray  to  the  king  for  writing  something 
against  the  Scots  in  a  play  called  ''  Eastward  Ho,"  and 
voluntarily  imprisoned  himself  with  Chapman  and  Mar- 
ston, who  had  written  it  amongst  them.  The  report 
was  that  they  should  then  have  had  their  ears  cut  an«j^ 
noses.  After  their  delivery  he  banqueted  all  his  friend&i, 
there  was  Camden,  Selden,  and  others ;  at  the  midst  >n 
the  feast  his  old  mother  drank  to  him,  and  shew  hii^er 


44  Ben  Jonson 

paper  whicli  slie  had  (if  the  sentence  had  taken  execution) 
to  have  mixed  in  the  prison  among  his  drink,  which  was 
full  of  lusty  strong  poison,  and  that  she  was  no  churl, 
she  told,  she  intended  first  to  have  drunk  of  it  herself.' 
I  have  occupied  too  much  time,  perhaps,  with  the 
history  of  Jonson's  literary  disputes.     It  had,  however, 
much  importance  for  me  in  the  attempt  to  bring  his 
character  before  my  readers,  and  to  show  in  what  pro- 
portions he   combined  a  lofty  ideal  of  his  calling  as  a 
poet  with  overweening  arrogance  and  an  ill-habit  of 
satirising  individuals.     The  essential  nobleness  of  the 
man  is  evidenced  by  the  tale,  just  transcribed,  of  his 
voluntary   imprisonment ;  ana   in   course   of  time  Jbe 
Jseems  to  have  been  universally  accepted^jjth  fl,H-43i^ 
faults  of  crustiness  and  self-conceit,  on  the  solid  ground 
of  sterling  merits.     At  any  rate,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
y  he  soon   became  literary  dictator  and  leader  of  jovial 
'  society  in  London.     Here  he  ruled  an  undisputed  and 
beloved  monarch  of  the  wits. 

Returning  from  this  excursion  to  the  facts  of  Jonson's 
biography,  I  may  conclude  the  present  chapter  by  sum- 
marising the  most  important  events  between  the  years 
1601  and  1616.     It  is  probable  that  during  the  first 
five  of  these  years  Jonson  was  living  with  Lord  Aubigny, 
planning  new  forms  of  dramatic  art  and  prosecuting  his 
studies  in  the  classics.     To  this  epoch  we  may  refer  his 
translation  of  the  '  Ars  Poetica,'  which   still  survives  : 
and  his  elaborate  commentary,  which   perished  in  the 
urning  of  his  books.     He  finally  broke  with  the  Ad- 
iral's  Men  and  joined  the  King's  Company  in  1602. 
^>xt  year,  his  first  tragedy,  '  Sejanus,'  was  put  upon 
stage,     Shakespeare  acted  in  it ;  and  tradition  holds 


First  Period  of  Manhood  45 

tliat  Shakespeare  enrictied  the  acting  copy  of  the  play 
with  passages  from  his  own  pen.  When  Jonson  had  it 
printed  in  1604,  he  gave  the  following  warning  to  the 
reader  in  a  preface  :  '  This  book  in  all  numbers  is  not 
the  same  with  that  which  was  acted  on  the  public  stage ; 
wherein  a  second  pen  had  good  share ;  in  place  of  which 
I  have  rather  chosen  to  put  weaker  and  no  doubt  less 
pleasing  of  mine  own  than  to  defraud  so  happy  a  genius 
of  his  right  by  my  loathed  usurpation.'  Those  who 
would  fain  believe  that  Shakespeare  collaborated  with 
Jonson  in  the  stage-copy  may  find  some  confirmation 
of  their  opinion  in  the  phrase  '  so  happy  a  genius.' 
What  most  struck  contemporaries  in  Shakespeare  seems 
to  have  been  his  felicity.  Webster,  for  example,  con- 
trasts '  the  right  happy  and  copious  industry  of  Master 
Shakespeare'  with  Hhe  laboured  and  understanding 
works  of  Master  Jonson.'  Heywood  in  his  '  Hierarchy 
of  Angels  '  couples  them  together  in  four  lines : — 

Mellifluous  Shakespeare,  whose  enchanting  quill 
Commanded  mirth  or  passion,  was  but  Will ; 
And  famous  Jonson,  though  his  learned  pen 
Be  dipped  in  Castaly,  is  still  but  Ben. 

In  '  Sejanus,'  as  we  have  it,  there  is  plenty  of  Ben's 
labour,  learning,  and  understanding.  Will's  right  happy 
vein  of  mellifluous  enchantment,  if  it  ever  existed  there, 
has  perhaps  been  lost,  through  the  chief  author's  mas- 
culine resolve  to  claim  no  man's  honours  by  loathed 
usurpation.  The  tragedy  brought  him  into  trouble. 
He  had  beaten  one  of  Lord  Northampton's  servants^ 
and  that  nobleman,  taking  up  his  lacquey's  quarrel, 
called  Jonson  before  the  Council  to  answer  for  treason 
and  popery.     This  indictment  must  have  been  rather 


46  Ben  J  on  son 

captious  than  really  malicious ;  for  Jonson  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  seriously  compromised.  He  stuck 
to  his  religion,  however,  until  1610  ;  when  he  abjured 
popery,  and  reconciled  himself  with  true  toper's  zeal  (as 
we  have  seen)  *to  the  reformed  Church  of  England. 

The  accession  of  James  I.  to  the  English  throne  in 
1603  opened  new  spheres  of  patronage  and  fresh  fields 
of  literary  activity  for  Jonson.  I  shall  show,  in  another 
'^hapter,  when  I  come  to  treat  more  closely  of  his  social 
life,  that  he  had  already  made  friends  with  members  of 
the  aristocracy ._  This  is  apparent  in  the  controversy 
with  Marston  and  Dekker,  both  of  whom  are  repre- 
sented as  jealous  of  his  noble  acquaintances.  He  also 
occupied  a  distinguished  place  in  the  higher  Bohemian 
company  of  the  capital.  On  these  foundations  he  was 
able  to  build  up  close  relations  with  the  Court,  and  to 
cement  them  by  James's  and  the  Queen's  partiality  for 
theatrical  entertainments.  The  period  of  his  masques 
and  of  his  laureateship  now  opens.  On  June  25,  1603, 
we  find  him  presenting  '  The  Satyr '  at  Althorpe  before 
the  Queen  and  Prince  Henry.  *  On  August  1  he  dedi- 
cated '  Pancharis '  to  James.  On  March  15,  1604,  he 
collaborated  with  his  old  foe  Dekker  in  the  'Enter- 
tainment,' presented  to  the  King  on  passing  to  his 
Coronation.  On  March  19  he  wrote  a  panegyric  upon 
the  King's  reception  of  the  Houses.  On  May  1  he 
showed  'The  Pirates 'to  their  Majesties  at  Sir  William 
Cornwallis's  residence  in  Highgate.  On  Twelfth  Night 
of  that  year  the  Queen's  masque  of  '  Blackness,'  written 
by  Jonson  and  put  upon  the  stage  by  Inigo  Jones,  was 
performed  at  Whitehall.  These  dates  sufiice  to  prove 
with  what  energy  Jonson  cast  himself  into  the  special 


First  Period  of  Manhood  47 

office  of  Court  poet.  He  had  tried  the  public ;  obtained 
a  sudden  and  a  singular  success.  His  own  presumption 
changed  that  success  into  one  of  scandal  rather  than 
esteem.  From  the  comic  stage  he  flung  off  in  disdainful 
anger,  wooed  tragedy,  and  reaped  somewhat  arid  laurels 
in  that  field.  But  the  man,  meanwhile,  had  gained  the 
sympathy  of  England's  gentlefolk;  and  when  James 
came,  a  splendid  opportunity  for  the  display  of  his 
learned  genius  was  afforded  him,  of  which  he  was  noi 
slack  to  avail  himself. 

This  while,  however,  Jonson  did  not  neglect  the 
public  stage.  I  will  here  omit  to  mention  the  masques 
and  entertainments  he  provided  with  untiring  pen  for 
courtly  weddings,  royal  receptions,  and  Whitehall  fes- 
tivals. The  name  of  them  is  legion ;  and  in  their  proper 
place  they  shall  be  reckoned.  But  the  great  work,  the 
work  by  which  his  fame  must  live,  was  still  in  these 
years  given  to  the  people.  In  1605  'Volpone'  was{ 
acted  at  the  Globe.  In  1609  '  The  Silent  Woman  'Was/ 
performed  by  the  Children  of  her  Majesty's  Kevels.  Ini 
1610  'The  Alchemist'  was  put  upon  the  stage  by  the 
King's  Men.  In  1611  'Catiline'  was  acted  by  the 
same  company.  In  1614  '  Bartholomew  Fair,'  of  all 
Jonson's  plays  the  most  genial  and  most  true  to  his 
London  cradle,  was  presented  by  the  Lady  Elizabeth's 
Men  at  the  Hope  Theatre.  In  1616  'The  Devil  is  an 
Ass,'  one  of  his  declining  comedies,  saw  the  light  under 
the  auspices  of  the  King's  Men. 

For  those  who  have  studied  our  dramatic  literature, 
the  mere  recital  of  titles  and  dates  in  the  foregoing 
paragraph  has  a  grave  importance.  They  show  that 
the  enduring  work  of  Jonson,  his  master-work,  was 


43  Ben  J  on  son 

finished  between  1605  and  1614.  The  decadence  is 
already  visible  in  1616.  This  is  the  year  which  I  have 
chosen  as  the  term  of  the  second  period  in  his  bio- 
graphy. It  only  remains  for  me  now  to  gather  up  two 
fragments  from  the  annals  of  his  life  in  this  short 
section.  The  first  to  mention  is  his  preparation  of  a 
folio  edition  of  his  works,  which  bears  the  date  of  1616. 
More  careful  than  Shakespeare,  possibly  because  he 
stood  apart  from  trade-transactions  in  the  theatres,  he 
planned  sl  jprima  editio  of  all  the  things  which  he  judged 
life-worthy  from  his  penj  and  gave  it  to  the  world  in 
that  year.  The  second  point  to  notice  is  that  he  was 
sent  in  1612,  or  1613,  by  Sir  W.  Kaleigh  as  governor 
to  his  son,  into  France.  Jonson  worked  for  Ealeigh 
in  the  capacity  of  secretary  when  Kaleigh  was  penning 
his  '  History  of  the  World  '  in  the  Tower.  While  con- 
versing with  Drummond  at  Hawthornden,  Jonson  gave 
a  hint  of  the  services  which  he  and  others  had  paid 
to  that  great  compilation.  '  The  best  wits  of  England 
were  employed  for  making  his  History.  Ben,  himself, . 
had  written  a  piece  to  him  of  the  Punic  war,  which  he 
altered  and  set  in  his  book.'  Be  this  as  it  may,  Ealeigh 
conceived  so  high  a  notion  of  Jonson  as  a  man  that  he 
sent  him  to  France  with  his  heir  in  the  quality  of  tutor. 
Of  that  journey  Jonson  thought  fit  to  confide  to  Drum- 
mond certain  comic  details,  which  cannot  here  be 
omitted.  '  This  youth  (young  Ealeigh)  being  knavishly 
inclined,  among  other  pastimes,  caused  him  to  be 
drunken  and  dead  drunk,  so  that  he  knew  not  where 
he  was ;  thereafter  laid  him  on  a  car,  which  he  made 
to  be  drawn  by  pioneers  through  the  streets,  at  every 
corner  showing  his  governor  stretched  out,  and  telling 


First  Period  of  Manhood  49 

them,  tlaat  was  a  more  lively  image  of  the  Crucifix  than 
any  they  had :  at  which  sport  young  Raleigh's  mother 
delighted  much  (saying,  his  father  young  was  so  in- 
clined), though  the  Father  abhorred  it.'  Pardon  must, 
peradventure,  be  craved  for  introducing  this  unseemly 
picture  of  Ben  Jonson  and  his  pupil,  the  lad  Raleigh,  in 
the  streets  of  Paris.  Yet  it  gives  so  vivid  a  notion  of 
Englishmen  as  they  then  were,  and  of  Englishmen  as 
they  now  are  (mutatis  mutandis)  in  foreign  parts,  that  I 
cannot  deny  myself  the  satisfaction  of  the  quotation.  I 
feel  that  it  will  not  hurt  Jonson;  for  the  next  two 
chapters  shall  display  him  in  the  very  blaze  of  glory 
as  a  dramatist  whom  no  contemporary  touched  in  his 
own  line  of  art. 


so  Ben  Jonson 


CHAPTER  III. 
jonson's  dramatic  style. 

Those  who  have  made  a  special  study  of  Ben  Jonson 
will  agree,  l-tbiiife,  in  judging  that  his  fame  must 
ultimately  rest  upon  four  comedies — '  Volpone/  '  The 
Alchemist/  '  The  Silenb  Woman/  and  ^  Bartholomew 
Fair.'  If  a  fifth  be  added  to  this  number,  they  will 
unanimously  vote  for  '  Every  Man  in  his  Humour.' 
Should  such  critics  differ,  the  points  at  issue  WtlT 
probably  concern  the  order  of  these  plays  in  merit,  and 
the  question  whether  '  Every  Man  in  his  Humour '  is 
not  superior  to  '  The  Silent  Woman.'  At  the  point  we 
have  reached  in  Jonson's  biography,  I  propose  to  pause 
and  analyse  these  four  plays  in  detail.  This  appears  tp 
me  the  best  way  of  introducing  Jonson  in  his  character 
of  playwright  to  the  modern  public;  even  though  the 
minute  dissection  of  comedies  and  the  criticism  of 
characters  must  involve  of  necessity  some  tedious  pas- 
sages. But  before  proceeding  to  examine  the  plays 
themselves  in  chronological  order,  I  shall  preface  this 
inquiry  with  remarks  on  Jonson's  style  in  general. 

When  our  author  in  his  '  Poetaster  '  made  Dekker 
twit  him  with  being  '  a  mere  sponge,  nothing  ,but 
humours  ana  observation,'  when  Marston  in  the  same 
play  taxed  him  for  ^filching  by   translation/  Jonson 


Jonson's  Dramatic  Style  51 

struck  the  key-note  of  his  own  dramatic  style.  What 
first  strikes  us  in  studying  one  of  his  plays  is  the 
fextraordinary  combination  of  accurately  imitated  ntaa^ 
ners  with  voluminous  eruditionTT  The  common  people 
of  Elizahethan  London,  frequenters  of  the  aisles  of  St. 
Paul's,  danglers  about  the  theatres,  haunters  of  taverns 
and  worse  places  of  amijsement,  sharpers  and  their 
dupes,  actors  and  their  cronies,  bad  poets  and  cowardly 
captains,  country  gentlemen  and  Puritans  from  Amster- 
dam, vulgar  city  •knights,  poor  squires,  spendthrift  ^ 
heirs,  madams  who  wear  acres  in  pounced  velvet  on\ 
their  backs,  miserly  old  men,  pedlars,  bear-leaders,  \ 
water-carriers,  Thames  watermen,  all  the  motlej;_crowd  \ 
of  street  and  fair,  and  market-place  and  river,  jostle  \ 
together,  each  with  well- seized  peculiarities,  like  th^ 
puppets  of  a  marionette  show.  ^  The  fund  of  humou^gjs 
inexhaustible ;  the  observation  with  which  they  have 
Tbeen  caught  and  made  fit  subjects  for  the  comic  muse 
is  penetrative.  But  they  are  set  for  us^n_a  quaint 
framework  of  elaborate  learning.  All  ^he  classics  have 
^^en  ransacked  to  point  their  foibles  and  exhibit  their 
absurdities.  The  literature  of  the  Renaissance,  Eras- 
mus  and  Rabelais,  the  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
books  on  sports  and  hunting,  books  on  alchemy,  books  on 
natural  history,  books  on  Rosicrucian  mysticism,  furnish 
unexpected  illustrations  of  the  commonest,  most  vulgar 
incidents.  Beneath  the  cumbersome  panoply  of  close 
translations  from  Greek  and  Latin  authors,  ponderous 
quotations  and  barbarous  jargon  out  of  dusty  libraries, 
these  puppets  of  the  moment  skip  and  jump  and  pl^y 
their  pranks  v/ith  strange  mechanic  nimbleness.  I  This  ^ 
combination  of  the  pithiest  realism  with  encyclopaedic 

E  2 


$2  Ben  JoNSON 

erudition  is  the  first  thing  to  notice  about  Jonson  ;  and 
for  modern  readers  it  forms  a  serious  obstacle  to  the 
enjoyment  of  his  art.  We  have  to  learn,  as  it  ^Yere,  a 
new  language  before  we  can  enter  into  the  spirit  of  his 
comedy/} 

It  has  been  well  said  that  his  dramas  are  like  solidly 
built  houses  from  which  the  scaffolding  has  not  been 
removed.  We  recognise  the  skill  of  their  construction 
and  the  substantial  strength  of  the  edifice;  but  we 
never  fail  to  be  too  conscious  of  the  means  employed 
for  a  desired  result.  Admirably  as  the  plots  of  his  best 
pieces  are  put  together,  so  admirably  that  they  have 
wrung  enthusiastic  applause  from  brother  craftsmen, 
yet  they  strike  us  as  Titanic  timber-work.  Jonson 
piqued  himself  on  niaking  his  own  plots,  not  drama- 
tising a  novel  or  a  history,  as  was  the  fashion  of  that  day. 
Consequently,  his  plays  are  all  of  one  piece  :  the  whole 
and  the  parts  of  each  bespeak  the'  man  from  whose 
strong  brain  they  issued.  Without  predecessor  and 
without  legitimate  successor,  he  stands  alone,  colossal, 
iron-jointed,  the  Behemoth  of  the  drama. 

j  Jonson's  style  is  vigoroiis,  rnbnstly  T^nglish^  jarely 

conSescending  to  the  graces  of  melodious  diction.     Yet 

-    when  we  analyse  his  language,  we  shall  find  that  it 

is  frequentlv  a  cento  of  translations  from  the  classics. 

.    This     wholesale     and     indiscriminate     translation^  is 

^la^ged  with  admirable  freedom.^  Jie  held  the  prose 

J  \vriters  and  poet^of  antiquity  in  solution  in  his  spacious 

memory.      He  did  not  need   to  3ovetail  "or  weld"  his 

borrowings  into  one  another ;  but  rather,  having  fused 

them  in  his  own  mind,  poured  them  plastically  forth 

into    the   mould   of  thought.      Therefore,    unless   we 


Ui< 


J  ON  son's  Dramatic  Styl^.  53 

happen  to  recognise  the  originals  on  whom  he  has  been 
drawing,  we  shall  fancy  that  he  is  speaking  from  his 
own  stores.     This  kind  of  looting  from  classical  trea- 
suries of  wit  and  wisdom  was  accounted  no   robbery 
in  that  age  5  and  Jonson's  panegyrists  praised  him  as 
a  conqueror  who  spoiled  the  empires  of  the  past  like    — 
Alexander.      '  The  greatest  man  of  the  last  age,  Ben 
Jonson,'  says  Dryden,  '  was  willing  to  give  place  to  the 
classics  in  all  things :    he   was   not  only  a  professed 
imitator  of  Horace,  but  a  learned  plagiary  of  all  the 
others;  you  track  him  everywhere  in  their  snow.      If 
Horace,  Lucan,  Petronius  Arbiter,  Seneca,  and  Juvenal 
had  their  own  from  him,  there  are  few  serious  thoughts     /^ 
which  are  new  in  him.     But  he  has  done  his  robberies  >^t^ 
so  openly,  that  one  may  see  he  fears  not  to  be  taxed  by         i 
any  law.    He  invade^authors  like  a  monarch ;  and  whatj..^^ 
;;;gould  be  theft  in  other  poets  is  only  victo^  in  him/  ^  i<::y     ^ 
rJnother  general  point  to  notice  is  that,  though  a    \^^ 
carelul^observer   and   minute  recorder.  Jonson  rarely 
touched  more  than  the  outside  of  character.    Notj3ene-      ^ 
tratm^with  the  clairvoyance  of  imagination  intottie     rjl^ 
groundwork  of  personality^  but  constructing  individuals  ' .. 
Trom  what  appears  of  them  upon  the  surface^he  was  tQO 
apt  to  present  one  glaring  quality  to  the^  excLusionj^ 
all  others!!     Thus  his^men  and  women  are  the  incarna- 
tions of  abstract  properties  rather  than  living  human 
beings.     We   obtain  B^^  clear  conception  of  them,  and 
remember  each    apart  from  his  neighbour.      But  the 
rigid  maintenance  of  their  master-passion,  the   strict 
definition  of  their  leading  humour,  gives  them  an  air  of 
mechanism.     In  this  respect  the  feeblest  of  the  romantic 
*  Malone's  Prose  WorUs  of  Dryden^  vol.  iii.  pp.  51,  103. 


) 


54  -Sen  Jons  on 

dramatists  excelled  him.  W^le  Jonson  made  masks^ 
the  despised  Dek^er  and  Hey  wood  created  souls.  Their 
persons  move  before  us  with  the  reality  of  life;  we 
become  familiar  with  them  as  entire  men  and  women^ 
The  critical  distinction  here  indicated  is  so  im- 
portant in  its  bearings  on  Jonson's  relation  to  the  drama 
of  his  day  that  I  must  take  leave  to  enlarge  on  it. 
The  comedy  of  character  and  manners,  which  was 
derived  from  antique  models,  brought^tjges  rather  than 
individuals  into  play.  Its  dramatis  personce  were  the 
jealous  man,  the  avaricious  man,  the  misanthrope,  the 
wanton  woman ;  who  are  always  jealous,  always  avari- 
cious, always  misanthropical,  always  wanton.  Romantic 
art,  whether  tragic  or  comic,  the  English  art  which 
rebelled  against  classical  precedent  and  gave  Shakespeare 
to  the  world,  has  never  pursued  this  course.  It  aims 
at  the  creation_of_personalities,  in  whom  such  qualities, 
though  predominant  and  determinative  of  the  dramatic 
action,  shall  yet  be  blended  with  a  multiplicity  of  other 
moral  motives,  as  they  usually  are  in  life.  We  find  thia 
tendency  even  in  the  allegories  of  the  Moral  Plays, 
where  men  like  Hick  Scorner,  women  like  Delilah, 
speedily  supplant  the  personified  abstractions  of  Juventus 
or  Abominable  Living.  When  the  romantic  style  ob- 
tained its  victory  in  England,  the  licences  of  time  and 
place  invqlved  in  the  dramatisation  of  a  novel  favoured 
this  truer  and  more  vital  character-drawing.  It  enabled 
great  artists  to  exhibit  the  development  of  a  quality 
which  shall  tyrannise  over  the  whole  nature  of  the  man. 
Lin  Othello  we  witness  the  growth  _of_jealousy,  in 
[acbeth  the  growth  ofambition,  in  Timon  the  growth, 
of  misanthropy,  inHDoriolanus  the  g^rowth  of  pride,  in 


JoNSON^s  Dramatic  Style  SS 

Antony  the  ^ro.wtli  of  amorous  dotage,  to  such  a  degree 
of  predominance  that  their  destinies  are  irretrievably 
determined  by  the  mastery  which  one  moral  element 
has  gained  over  the  whole  complex  of  their  nature.  T6 
use  German  phrases,  the  romantic  sphere  of  art  is  das 
Werdende,  not  das  Bestimmte :  character  in  process  of 
formation,  iiot^fixedjyp^s.  It  is  Just  here  that  Jonson  qr 
diverged  most  radically  from  the  spirit  of  the  English        ' 

drama   in    his*"~"ag^: He  starts  -wit±:^lAaf&^       set,^^^*'^'^^^ 

formedT^uU^  defiTlM'-''  a  master  passion  in  complete 
empire  ;_J'he  man  absorbed  in  his  specific  humour.  1£is 
he  unfolds  with  inexhaustible  variety  and  brilliant  wit 
before  our  eyes.  He  creates  as  many  situations  and 
occasions  as  he  can  for  its  display.  But  it  never  alters. 
The  strict  logic  of  his  powerful  understanding,  his  grasp 
of  common  circumstance,  the  immense  resources  of  his 
thought  and  language,  enabled  him  to  flash  rays  of 
light  on  each  facet  of  the  chosen  humour:  Yet  we 
always  know  what  to  expect  in  every  conceivable  situa- 
tion where  his  persons  shall  be  placed.  Asper  is  sure 
to  utter  a  censure ;  Macilente,  a  reflection  on  the  un- 
merited good  fortune  of  his  neighbours;  Sir  Epicure 
Mammon  disappoints  us  if  he  opens  his  mouth  without 
indulging  in  some  gorgeous  dream  of  far-fetched  luxury, 
or  some  vast  speculation  on  his  future  wealth ;  Morose 
must  always  shut  his  ears  from  noise,  and  bawl  out  ffi 
tranquillity.  ,An^the  persons  of  Jonson's  comedies  are 
thus  like  masqueraders.  with  whom  it  is  a  point  of 
honour  to  maintain  a  certain  assumed  character;  and 
the  index  to  their  maker's  notion  of  their  duties  niay  beT 
aptly  studied  in  his  list  of  persons  prefixed  to  '  Everjtj 
Man  out  of  his  •  Humour.'     I  have  already  remarked' 


S6  Ben  JoNsoN 

\  that  tlie  romantic  licence  as  to  time  and  place  favoured 
;  the    Shakespearian   grasp    of    character   in   evolution. 
j  Macbeth  could  not  grow  from  a  bluff  general  into  a 
world-wearied  tyrant,  Timon  from  a  generous  spend- 
\  thrift  into  a  cynical  man-hater,  Antony  from  a  bold 
/    politician  into  a  woman's  plaything,  in  a  single  day. 
1;  Given  but  twenty-four  hours /For  the  dramatic  action, 
and  fixed_type^_of_character,  which  do  not  grow,  but 
are  analysed,  becom^vinevitable.    .ISTow  Jonson  was  so 
far  a  classic  by  culture  and  instinclTTEat  he  adhered  to 
the  unities'Yjlnd  comedy,  in  which  he  principally  dealt, 
has  ever  'observed  them.  'i^His  mechanical  handling  of 
character  belonged,  therefore,  in  a  measure  to  his  ideal 
of  art.    J  Still   this   consideration   will    not  suffice  to 
excuse  Him  altogether.    He  fails  in  so  far  as,  he^does  not 
analyse  the  type  presented,  as  Moliere  does,  but  is  con- 
tented with  displaying  and  illustrating  its  outer  form. 

It  is  possible  that  the  woodenness  which  fatigues  the 
reader  of  all  but  Jonson's  five  best  comedies  may  not 
have  struck  spectators  of  the  same  plays  on  the  stage. 
.  Perpetual  movement,  bright  costume,  and  the  vivacity 
^  of  actors  can  touch  a  stiff  mechanic  thing  with  liveliness. 
None  of  Jonson's  pieces  suffer  from  deficiency  of  business ; 
and  his  personages  are  so  sharply  defined  that  they  offer 
opportunities  to  able  players.  Regarded  as  forms  to  be 
filled  with  the  actor's  own  breath  of  life  and  individuality, 
even  these  mechanic  puppets  may  have  moved  mirth. 

Lest  I   should  overstate   the  case  against   Jonson 
for  mechanical  hardness  of  delineation,  I  ought  to  re- 
mark that  this  defect  is  closely  allied   to   one  of  his 
,    chi^f  qualities.      No   playwright  of  'that   age,   if  we 
j    except  Shakespeare,  had  so  eminent  a  power  of  charac- 


Jonson's  Dramatic  Style  57 

terisation.  The  truth  of  this  will  be  apparent  in  the 
next  chapter,  where  I  propose  to  examine  his  four 
greatest  comedies.  It  is  mainly  in  the  minor  person- 
ages of  his  drama  that  the  author  s  method  tends  to 
rigidity.  We  are  too  much  aware  of  his  intention, 
and  of  the  means  he  uses  to  attain  certain  effects. 
To  borrow  a  phrase  from  painting,  there  is  a  want  of 
atmosphere  in  his  elaborated  pictures.  And  here,  since 
no  better  opportunity  will  present  itself,  I  may  intro- 
duce what  I  have  to  say  about  his  two  tragedies,  '  the 
flat  sanity  and  smoke-dried  sobriety'  of  which  have 
been  alluded  to  by  Mr.  Swinburne.  'Sejanus'  and 
*  Catiline '  are  Roman  history  done  into  robust  blank 
verse — Tacitus,  Cicero,  and  Sallust  not  always  bettered 
by  translation.  Coleridge  wished  that  we  had  more  of 
these  ponderous  studies.  He  must  surely  have  forgotten 
the  tedium  of  the  minor  characters ;  the  long  solilo-  ^' 
quies ;  the  interminable  orations ;  the  heavy  choruses 
in  Seneca's  manner.  And  yet  these  plays  are  disjifl>l 
guished  by  two  eminent  qualities :  sustained  dignity 
of,  language,  and  trenchant  charadier^3rawmgr"in 
'  Sejanus,'  both  Tiberius~and  his  favourite  are  portrayed 
with  masterly  force.  A  tyrant  advancing  to  his  ends 
by  dissimulation,  and  a  vulgar  upstart  calling  down 
upon  his  head  the  vengeance  of  the  gods  by  arrogant 
self-confidence,  could  not  be  more  vigorously  contrasted. 
The  moral  atmosphere  of  imperial  Eome;  clogged  with 
suspicion  and  heavy  with  dread,  as 

when  Jove 
Will  o'er  some  high-viced  city  hang  his  poison 
In  the  sick  air, 

weighs  upon  us  while  we  thread  the  laboriously  deve- 


58  Ben  JoNsoN 

loped  intricacies  of  the  plot.  That  '  Sejanus '  could  not 
have  been  a  good  acting  play  is  certain ;  and  the  same 
may  be  said  about  '  Catiline/  which  its  author  pre- 
ferred, and  I  think  rightly.  This  tragedy  well  repays 
careful  perusal,  however.  It  compels  our  interest  and 
our  admiration  by  its  rugged  Roman  strength.  The 
first  act,  which  is  wholly  devoted  to  the  conspirators, 
might  be  quoted  as  a  magnificent  study  in  the  sombre 
manner  of  a  literary  Salvator  Eosa.  Wily  and  plausible 
Catiline  sets  off  the  vain  and  superstitious  Lentulus; 
vehement  Cethegus,  blinded  by  his  blood-lust,  finds  a 
foil  in  the  twice-dyed  traitor  Curius ;  cautious  Caesar 
presents  a  striking  contrast  to  lukewarm,  egotistical 
Antonius.  Cicero,  always  over-voluble  of  speech,  yet 
dignified  by  patriotism  and  rendered  amiable  by  a  kind 
of  personal  grace,  shines  with  benign  radiance  by 
the  side  of  downright,  hot-headed  Cato,  and  vindic- 
tive Catulus.  The  two  female  characters  are  no  less 
effectively  presented.  Fulvia,  a  voluptuous  Roman 
wanton  of  Messalina's  type ;  Sempronia,  who  dabbles  in 
politics,  reads  Greek,  and  thinks  herself  the  match  of 
Cicero  in  eloquence,  of  Caesar  in  statecraft.  Both  are 
treacherous :  Sempronia  to  the  State,  Fulvia  to  the  con- 
spiracy. From  these  two  tragedies  passages  of  great 
poetic  beauty,  noble  images,  and  weighty  maxims  might 
be  culled.  Jonson  made  no  idle  boast  when  he  called 
attention  to  his  '  height  of  elocution '  and  to  the  '  full- 
ness and  frequency  of  sentence,'  in  which,  with  Milton, 
he  recognised  '  the  offices  of  a  tragic  writer.' 

"When  we  inquire  into  the  causes  which  breed  satiety 
in  the  readers  of  Jonson's  plays,  we  shall  find  that  a 
fataHnability  to  stop  at  the  right;>^ome^t  is  a  princi- 


JoNSON^s  Dramatic  Style    X        59 

pal.  He  never  knew  when  his  audience  might  fairly 
be  supposed  to  have  enough  of  the  substantial  diet  set 
before  them ;  but  went  on  heaping  period  on  period, 
and  turning  a  brace  of  thoughts  in  a  score  of  fashions. 
Whether  the  character  on  w^hich  he  is  engaged  be 
Horace  or  Tucca  matters  little.  He  employs  the  same 
labour  in  developing  his  protagonists  and  his  supernu- 
meraries. Nor  does  he  spare  rhetoric  when  dealing  with 
repulsive  themes.  It  has,  therefore,  well  been  said  of 
him  that  'his  tenaciousness  of  what  is  grand  and  lofty 
is  more  praiseworthy  than  his  delight  in  what  is  low 
and  disagreeable.'  But  we  have  no  right  to  assert  that  he 
took  pleasure  in  the  vulgar  for  its  own  sake.  If  he  had 
that  on  hand,  he  worked  it  out  as  fully  as  the  nobler 
elements  of  art.  All  the  authors  of  the  English  Renais- 
sance erred  on  the  side  of  redundancy.  But  while 
Shakespeare  and  Fletcher  were  carried  away  by  a  luxu- 
riant fancy,  Jonson  yielded  to  prodigious  memory  and 
a  scholar's  conscientiousness.  He  tells  us  that  he  wrote 
in  prose  first,  and  then  versified.  This  probably  accounts 
for  the  long-winded  paragraphs  of  frigidly  expanded 
oratory  which  surfeit  our  attention.  Like  a  mole,  as 
it  has  been  well  put,  he  burro w^ed  into  his  material, 
and  threw  up  the  soil  upon  the  surface.  If,  then,  he 
chanced  on  rich  and  generous  veins,  his  readers  had  the 
benefit ;  no  substance  is  more  marrowy  or  charged  with 
mental  stuff.  If  not,  he  still  performed  the  delver's  toil, 
turning  the  last  clod  of  a  clayey  earth  with  satisfaction 
to  himself.^ 

I  have  touched  upon  his  vast  and  indiscriminate 

*  For  example,  the  interlude  of  the  parasites,  and  the  scene  of 
the  mountebank,  in  *  Volpone.' 


/6a  ■  ^EN  JONSOM 


Ig^rrngr—  In  the  employment  of  tliis  lie  neglected 
V  tEe  Greelc  rule  of  '  Nothing  overmucli/  no  less  than  in 
his  ;rhetorical  expansion  of  given  themes.  We  gasp, 
astounded  at  the  wealth  of  erudition  he  possessed. 
Not  only  the  choicer  authors  oTlLritiquity,  on  whom  a 
humanistic  education  is  built  up ;  but  the  sophists, 
compilers,  grammarians,  and  historical  epitomists  of  the 
decadence — men  like  Athenseus,  Libanius,  Philostratus, 
the  writers  of  Augustan  histories,  scholiasts,  Strabo, 
Photius — obey  his  bidding.  The  fragments  of  Greek 
tragic  and  comic  poets,  then  embedded  in  the  prose  of 
obscure  essayists ;  the  fragments  of  Ennius  and  Luci- 
lius  ;  the  fragments  of  -^olic  lyrists  and  Ionian  sages ; 
the  fragments  of  Roman  inscriptions,  imperfectly  distri- 
buted through  treatises  of  dull  Italian  scholars  :  all  had 
been  appropriated  by  his  indefatigable  industry.  Not  a 
jot  or  tittle  of  this  curious  learning  does  he  spare  us  in 
his  comedies.  The  same  is  true  of  even  more  recondite 
subjects.  Subtle  delivers  exact  lectures  upon  alchemy. 
The  ^Masque  of  Queens'  supplies  an  encyclopaedia  of 
witchcraft.  The  foresters  of  masque  and  pastoral  ex- 
pound venery.  In  one  laborious  scene  he  teaches  the 
science  of  cosmetics;  in.  another  the  mysteries  of  the 
Rosicrucian  order. //  He  cannot  call  upon  Arcadian 
nymphs  to  scatter  'flowers  without  reciting  a  list  of 
twenty-seven  species,  in  which  the  pride  of  Elizabethan 
/liorticulture  seems  to  be  epitomised.  This  determination 
J^  to  be  exhaustive  belonged  to  some  essentially  scientific 
quality  of  Jonson's  mind.  Order,  classification,  rule, 
measure,  governed  his  conception  of  the  literary  builder's 
art;  and  he  was  not  satisfied  unless  he  had  accumulated 
on  each  given  point  the  whole  mass  of  its  learning ;  yet 


JoNSON^s  Dramatic  Style  .61, 

his  robust  slioulde^s  were  scarcely  burdened  with  the 
weight  they  bor^l'^  Like  Atlas,  he  supported  a  world 
of  knowledge.  But,  all  the  while,  he  moved  beneath  ly^ 
that  load  with  no  more  effort  than  war-elephants  who 
carry  garrisons  upon  their  backs./  It  is  the  mark  of 
insolently  virile  intellects  to  sustain  the  bulk  of  erudi- 
tion with  facility,  and  to  sport  beneath  a  camel's  pack 
in  wantonness.  Lord  Macaulay,  in  his  comparatively 
smaller  way,  came  near  to  Jonson  ;  but  no  one  who  has 
not  read  and  re-read  '  Volpone '  or  '  The  Alchemist '  has 
formed  a  true  conception  of  elephantine  sprightliness. 

Jonson  paid  the  penalty  of  these  extraordinary 
qualities.  It  follows  from  what  I  have  said  of  his  work 
that  he  put  nothing  into  his  plays  which  patient  criticism 
may  not  extract: /the  wand  of  the  enchanter  has  not 
passed  over  them/fThere  is  no  music  which  we  hear  but^ 
shall  not  capture ;  no  aerial  hues  that  elude  description ; 
no  '  scent  of  violets  hidden  in  the  grass ' ;  no  '  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land ' ;  no  ^  casements  opening  on 
the  foam  of  perilous  seas  in  faery  lands  forlorn.'  TJoese- 
higher  gifts  of  poetry,  with  which  Shakespeare — 
*  nature's  child' — was  so  richly  endowed,  are  almost 
absolutely  wanting  in  Ben  Jonson.  frerhaps  the  names 
of  Earine  and  Aeglamour  in  th'S^'^Sad  Shepherd,'  and  a 
few  of  this  shepherd's  speeches,  have  just  a  touch  of  the 
enchantment.  On  its  rare  occurrence  in  Jonson's 
masques  and  lyrics  I  shall  dwell  when  my  argument 
brings  me  to  that  part  of  the  inquiry. 

In  Jonson's  qualities  of  style  we  discern  the  same 
robust  virtues  and  the  same  limitations.  For  his  prose 
I  must  confess  a  deep  and  reverent  partiality.  Its 
ujassive  periods  are  moulded  with  a  force  anticipating 


62         \  Ben  Jonson 

Milton  at  his  best ;  and  at  times  he  sparkles  into 
epigrams  and  fiery  fits  of  passion,  emitted  in  single 
sentences,  beyond  which  it  were  impossible  for  our 
speech  to  travel.'  Sis  blank  verse  is  always  manly, 
always  individual ; — unlike  that  of  any  of  his  contempo- 
raries;— but  grace,  subtlety,  emotion,.,  suggestiveness, 
are  wanting,~sacrificed  to  scholarly  solidity  and  even 
strength.  I  cannot  but  think  that  it  suffered  greatly 
from  the  poet's  habit  of  converting  prose  into  verse, 
whereby  the  thews  of  prose  were  wasted  on  a  tolerable 
mediocrity  of  metre.  It  never  falls  very  low ;  but  it 
rarely  rises  to  imaginative  or  impassioned  heights.  It"" 
is  rough-hewn  with  the  sinews  of  a  Cyclops ;  but  no 
Praxitelean  finish  has  been  bestowed  upon  this  brawny 
chisel-work;  no  Ariel  of  the  spirit  has  blown  the  poet's 
feeling  into  the  fine  stuff  of  thought,  to  float  and  shine 
with  permanent  or  passing  iridescence  :  such  exquisite 
tenuity  of  verse,  in  shorb,  as  we  rejoice  in  when  we  find 

\  /  it  in  the  work  of  men  like  Fletcher  or  like  humble 
j\  Dekker.  It^wantsJ[ightness  and  the  charm  of  chance. 
/      Indeed,  when  we  compare  Ben  Jonson's  blank   verse 

/  style  with  that  of  the  least  of  his  contemporaries,  we 
seem  to  be  contemplating  a  sound  substantial  edifice 
of  the  Palladian  manner — the  front  of  Whitehall  for 
example.  Whereas  Massinger  reminds  us  of  the  in- 
tricacies of  Sansovino,  Shakespeare  of  Goiihic  aisles  or 
heaven's  cathedral,  Fletclier  of  the  sylvan  architecture 
of  wild  green-wooc[s7j]gi:d  of  glittering  Corinthian 
colonnades,  Webster  of  vaulted  crypts,  Heywood  of 
homely  manor-houses  on  our  English  country-side, 
Marlowe  of  masoned  clouds,  and  Marston,  in  his  better 
moments,  of  the  fragmentary  vigour  of  a  Roman  ruin. 


\ 

Jonson's  Dramatic  Style  63 

Jonson's  art  of  translation,  so  highly  prized  by  him, 
so  envied  by  his  rivals,  was  of  a  like  texture ;  fabric, 
not  of  fancy  or  imagination,  but  of  understanding.  -  It  ^ 
would  be  easy  to  cite  examples.  They  may  be  culled  in 
both  his  tragedies  by  handfuls ;  but  I  would  not  call 
him  to  the  bar  of  criticism  there.  I  prefer  to  go  further 
afield,  and  invite  my  readers  to  study  the  lines  from 
the  fourth  ^neid  which  he  placed  on  Virgil's  lips  in  the 
^  Poetaster '  (act  v.  sc.  1) ;  or  to  indicate  ,the  version 
from  a  passage  of  Catullus  on  the  cropped  flower  in  his 
'Barriers.'  These  show  that  the  exquisite  sensibility 
to  perfume  in  an  antique  author's  style  failed  Jonson. 
And  yet,  when  I  have  said  so  much,  I  must  face  round, 
and  add  that  lyric  visitings  were  not  unfrequent  to  his 
muse.  In  other  words,  he  was  at  times  felicitous.  He 
found  for  a  fragment  of  Sappho, 

?ipos  ^77e\os  lfi€p6<pa}vos  ai^Swi/, 

this  phrase : — 

The  dear  good  angel  of  the  spring, 
The  nightingale. 

\| 

He  turned  a  score  of  scattered  sentences  from  the  proseN 
of  Philostratus  into  that  deathless  song,  '  Drink  to  me 
only  with  thine  eyes.'     Like  many  poets  whom  the^ 
muses  love,  Jonson  uttered  his  best  things  by  accident, 
and  what  weighed  heavily  upon  his  genius  was  the  fixed 
idea  that  scholarship  and  sturdy  labour  could  supply/^ 
the  place  of  inspiration.  • 

Before  concluding  these  remarks  upon  the  general 
features  of  Jonson's  dramatic  style,  I  must  point  out 
the  fact  that  he  failed  to  create  a  single  female  character 
of  excellence,    We  do  not  expect  from  him  an  Imogen,  a 


7^ 


64  Ben  Jonson 

Ducliess  of  Malfi,  or  even  an  Aspasia.  Sucli  women 
belong  essentially  to  tlie  romantic  species,  and  it  is 
only  in  '  The  Case  is  Altered '  and  '  The  New  Inn '  that 
Jonson  tried  to  assume  the  tone  of  romantic  art.  Yet 
it  might  have  been  thought  that  he  would  have  pro- 
duced something  in  the  same  kind  as  Dame  Quickly. 

I  This,  however,  is  not  the  case.     With  the  exception  of 

/  Widow  Purecraft  and  her  daughter,  in  '  Bartholomew 

i  I   Fair,'  and  Mrs.  Fitz  Dottrel  in  '  The  Devil  is  an  Ass,' 

^f^and  Lady  Frampul  in  ^  The  New  Inn,'  all  Jonson's 

I  women  are  mere  pieces  of  machinery — more  wooden 

vthan  his  men. 

This  defect  is  remarkable,  because  he  possessed  one 
virtue  which  was  rare  in  that  century,  and  which 
showed  a  delicacy  of  feeling  that  ought  to  have  made 
him  appreciative  of  feminine  excellence.  His  plays, 
though  often  coarse  and  nasty,  are  never  licentious.  -  To 
the  public,  tasta^  for  ^filthy  jests  he  refused  to  pander, 
nor  would  he  allow  his  art  to  palliaIe~immorality  by 
adding  the  charm  of  pathos,  wit,  or  poetic  beauty  to 
vice.  Indeed,  he  treated  wickedness  of  every  kind  so 
sternly  that  even  his  best  plays  fail  to  win  our  sympathy 
from  the  utter  atrocity  of  their  characters  and  the 
nakedness  with  which  Jonson  has  unmasked  them. 
Eallam  says  justly  of  '  Volpone '  that  '  five  of  the  prin- 
cipal characters  are  wicked  beyond  any  retribution  that 
comedy  can  dispense ; '  while  Coleridge  remarks  that 
the  extreme  badness  of  the  personages  destroys  the 
interest  of  this  stupendous  playlf  The  spectacle  of  .their 
unmitigated  evil  presented  t(5^^ur  gaze  affects  us  much 
in  the  same  way  as  the  perusal  of  a  treatise  on  ethics. 
Instead  of  regarding  these  monsters  as  men  with  passions 


JoNsoN^s  Dramatic  Style  65 

like  OUT  own,  we  recognise  the  abstractions  which  a 
powerful  rhetorician  has  gifted  with  mechanical  vitality. 
At  the  end  of  this  inquiry  into  the  general  jcharac- 
teristics  of  Jonson's  style,  it  will  be  useful  to  survey 
the  whole  course  of  his  development  jls  a  playwright, 
and  to  classify  the  various  species  of  his  dramas  which 
have  survived.  The  first  period  of  his  activity  was 
occupied  in  romantic  journey-work.  Of  the  fruits  of 
these  earliest  labours,  if  we  except  '  The  Case  is 
Altered,'  we  possess  nothing.  To  ascribe  the  fragment 
of  '  Mortimer '  to  that  epoch*  of  his  life  would  be  dan- 
gerous, in  the  absence  of  any  direct  evidence ;  though 
it  may  be  mentioned  that  a  play  bearing  that  title  was' 
being  acted  in  1602.  The  additions  to  '  The  Spanish 
Tragedy '  were  written  three  years  after  he  had  formed 
his  own  peculiar  style.  '  Every  Man  in  his  Humour ' 
(1598)  marks  the  emergence  of  this  original  manner, 
formed  upon  observation  of  contemporary  life  and  exact 
study  of  the  ancients.  It  also  opens  the  cycle  of 
his  comedies  of  humours,  which  he  closed,  in  his  old 
age,  with  ^  The  Magnetic  Lady.'  But  after  arriving  at 
self-consciousness,  and  creating  his  own  art  in  this 
epoch-making  play,  Jonson  swerved  aside  and  aban- 
doned the  comic  drama,  properly  so  called,  for  what  he 
termed  comical  satire,  in  'Every  Man  out  of  his 
Humour'  and  'Cynthia's  Eevels'  (1599  and  1600). 
Thes6  two  pieces  are  rather  puppet-shows  of  character, 
affording  scope  for  satirical  caricatures,  analytical  de- 
scriptions of  contemporary  affectations,  humorous  dia- 
logues, and  witty  personificatioils  oT'abstract  qualities, 
than  comedies.  They  cannot  properly  be  said  to  have 
^n  action  or  a  plot.     The  one  reminds  us  of  a  morality, 


Ids')  Ben  Jonson 

the  other  of  a  masque.  We  notice,  moreover,  that  ihe 
influence  of  the  Latin  drama  is  now  exchanged  for  thati 
of  the  ^  Plutus '  of  Aristophanes,  which  henceforth  ex- 
ercised a  somewhat  baneful  power  over  Jonson's  method. 
The  tendency  to  general  and  personal  satire,  which  had 
already  been  perceptible  in  '  The  Case  is  Altered,'  was- 
now  freely  indulged.  The  playwright,  posing  as  an^ 
Aristarchus  and  a  Juvenal,  made  bitter  enemies,  not 
dnly  among  men  of  letters,  but  also  among  players  and- 
playgoers,  courtiers  and  soldiers.  The  quarrels  in  which 
he   became  involved    led   to  the    production   of   tfe 

-^Poetaster'  (1601).  fThis  was  no  puppet-show  of 
humours,  but  a  play,  m  which  living  characters  doi^- 
tributed  by  their  action  to  the  development  of  a  plot.J 
After  the  ^Poetaster,'  Jonson  abandoned  comedy  for 
tragedy,  producing  '  Sejanus'  (1603)  in  a  style  to  soma 
extent  modelled  upon  that  of  Seneca.  It  was  followed 
by  a  second  tragic  play  called  ^  Catiline'  (1611).  /TOese 
two  plays  achieved,  and  deserved,  only  a  cold  success  of 
esteem."^! But  before  the  latter  date   he  had  resumed 

:his  nearned  sock.'  'Volpone'  (1605),  'The  Silent 
Woman'  (1609),  'The  Alchemist'  (1610),  and  'Bar- 
tholomew Fair'  (1614),  followed  each  other  within  the 
space  ^of  nine  industrious  years.  rFbur  true  comedies, 
excellent  in  plot,  masterly  in  chaitefer-drawing,  vigor- 
ous in  stylejwere  added  to  the  treasures  of  English 
literature.^  The  manner,  which  was  first  formed  in 
'  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,'  reached  its  full  expansion 
in  these  masterpieces.  On  the  accession  of  James  I., 
Jonson  opened  a  new  vein  by  the  production  of  his 
masques  and  entertainments.  Here  he  found  scope  for 
the  lyrical  faculty  and  capricious  inventiveness  which 


JoNsoN^s  Dramatic  Style  67 

lurked  beneath  the  rugged  exterior  of  his  dramatic 
muse.  But  though  he  showed  a  decided  preference  for_ 
this  sort  of  composition,  he  did  not  abandon  the  comedy 
of  humours.  'The  Devil  is  an  Ass'  (1616)  may  be 
reckoned  a  satisfactory  piece  of  workmanship^in  the 
manner  specific  to  Ben  Jonson.'  J  But  ^  The  Staple  of 
News '  (1625),nounded  upon  tEe  '  Plutus '  of  Aristo- 
phanes ;  "1  The  New  Inn  '  (1629),  an  attempt  to  break 
groundin  romantic  comedy  too  late ;  '  The  Magnetic 
Lady'  (1632),  which  closes  the  cycle  of  humours,  and 
'A  Tale  of  a  Tub'  (1633),  which  feebly  echoes  the 
Eabelaisian  laughter  of  ^  Bartholomew  Fair  ' :  all  of  these 
five  latest  products  of  Jonson's  pen  deserve  the  hard 
sentence  which  was  passed  on  them  by  Dry  den.  They; 
are  works  of  his  decadence.  In  this  brief  bird's-eye  view 
of  his  dramatic  industry,  it  only  remains  to  mention 
the  fragment  of  a  tragedy  called  '  Mortimer,'  which  was 
found  among  his  papers  after  his  death,  and  an  im- 
perfect pastoral  entitled  '  The  Sad  Shepherd.'  I  shall 
have  to  enter  at  some  length  into  questions  relating  to 
the  date  of  this  pastoral.  Here  ^^y  would  be  out  of 
place.  It  is  enough  to  say  thatfthis  rustic  play  com- 
bines Jonson's  regularity  of  structure  with  the  fancy 
which  had  sported  so  freely  in  the  best  of  his  masques. 
The  prologue,  as  we  have  it,  was  written  about  1637  In; 
the  last  months  of  the  poet's  life.  But  it  is  scarcel}^ 
credible  that  the  still  extant  portion  of  the  drama  can~ 
have  been  composed  at  that  epoch.  We  have  at  any 
rate  to  deplore  the  accident — whether  of  Jonson's  deatlr 
before  the  piece  was  finished,  or  of  the  carelessness' 
with  which  his  MSS.  were  handled  after  his  decease- 
whereby  English  .dramatic  literature  has  been  defrauded- 

F  2 


68  Ben  JoNsoN 

of  what  would  otlierwise  have  been  its  most  ingenioiislj 
constructed  and  firmly  executed  pastoral  play. 

After  tliis  summary  review  of  Jonson's  dramatic 
works,  it  will  be  possible  to  arrange  them  in  the  fol- 
lowing groups.  First  of  all  we  may  place  the  two 
tragedies,  ^  Sejanus '  and  '  Catiline,'  with  the  fragment 
of  '  Mortimer.'  The  masques,  triumphs,  entertain- 
ments, barriers,  form  a  second  class.  The  unfinished 
'  Sad  Shepherd '  has  to  stand  alone,  touching  the 
masques  on  one  side  and  the  comedies  upon  the  other. 
I  am  inclined  to  place  ^  The  Case  is  Altered,'  '  The  New 
Inn,'  and  the  additions  to  the  '  Spanish  Tragedy '  in  a 
fourth  group,  since  these  illustrate  Jonson's  essays  in 
romantic  art.  '  The  Silent  Woman,'  '  Bartholomew 
Fair,'  and  ^  A  Tale  of  a  Tub '  may  be  described  as  farces. 
To  comedies  of  humour  we  can  assign  '  Every  Man  in 
his  Humour,'  '  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour,'  '  Cyn- . 
thia's  Revels,'  '  The  Devil  is  an  Ass,'  '  The  Staple  of 
News,'  and  '  The  Magnetic  Lady.'  It  is  true  that  these 
plays  differ  much  in  their  construction ;  two  following 
the  model  of  Aristophanic  allegory,  one  moulding  itself 
upon  the  type  of  Latin  comedy,  and  one  borrowing  . 
suggestions  from  the  masque.  Yet  all  are  marked  by 
the  same  observation  of  humours,  as  the  phrase  was 
understood  by  Jonson.  /  The  Poetaster,'  on  account  of 
its  avowed  satiric  intention  and  the  peculiarity  of  its 
Eoman  fable,  must  stand  alone,  though  Jonson  would 
probably  have  classed  it  with  '  Every  Man  out  of  his 
Humour '  and  '  Cynthia's  Revels '  under  the  name  of 
comical  satire.  The  two  masterpieces  of  Jonson's  dra- 
matic art,  'Volpone'  and  ^  The  Alchemist,'  cannot  be 
grouped  with   comedies   pf  hijmour.  ..^  ^Yolpono '  is   \ 


J onson's  Dramatic  Style  €9 

deeplj;rcac}iing  dramatic  satire  on  Jtlie  vice  of  covetous- 
ness.  '  The  Alchemist '  is  a  comedy  of  character  and 
manners,  indulging  a  lighter  vein  of  satire  upon  human 
foibles.  In  form,  it  leans  more  to  the  farcical  type 
than  its  sombre  predecessor.  ^-^^"^"^^ 


70  Sen  Jonson 


V 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE     MASTERPIECES. 

VOLPONE. 

'  VoLPONE  '  isNrio  mere  comedv.  of  humours  or  comical 
satire.  It  is  a  \^inister  and/ remorseless  analysis  of 
avarice  in  its  corrosive  inflj^ence  on  human  character/ 
Nowhere  else  has  Jonson /with  so  firm  a  touch  bared 
one  master  vice,  absorbing  and  perverting  all  the  virtues, 
passions,  and  rational  fi^ulties  of  man.  '  The  accursed 
thirst  for  gold '  is  here  'displayed  as  a  fell  tyrant,  sway- 
ing the  love  of  kindred  and  of  honour ;  before  which 
lust,  jealousy,  and  fear  of  sham^.^are  forced  to  bow; 
which  compels  an/Italian  husband  to^prostitute  his  wife, 
an  advocate  to  perjure  himself  twice  in  open  court,  a 
gentleman  to  disinherit  and  disown  his  SQn,  an  English 
lady  to  risk^/iier  reputation,  and  all  the^e  dupes  to 
hazard  fame  and  fortune  blindly  on  a  cast  o%  chance. 

/  The  play  takes  its  title  from  the  hero,  Yolpone,  or 
the  ^Id  Fox.  He  is  a  Venetian  nobleman,  childless, 
without  heirs;  who,  at  the  time  when  the  first  act 
opens,  has  been  feigning  the  last  diseases  of  decrepitude 
through  three  years,  in  order  to  delude  the  folk  around 
him.  It  amuses  the  subtle  voluptuary  to  study  various 
and  well-developed  forms  of  covetousness  in  his  friends 
and  neighbours.     His  palace  has  become  the  haunt  of 


ii^ 


The  Masterpieces/  71 


cajptatojres,  legacy-hunters,  each  one  of  wHom  believes 
that  Jlis  name  will  be  found  al^5^  inscribed  upon  Vol- 
^one's  testament.  Yet  noney^^re\[uite  secure  and  easy 
in^^^)  expectation.  So  long  as  the  Fox  is  above 
ground,  he  may  always  change  his  dispositions.  There- 
fore the  birds  of  prey,  scenting  his  carcass  while  he 
yet  lives,  keep  hovering  about  his  pretended  sick-bed. 
There  he  lies,  smeared  with  chalk  and  oils,  coughing 
and  drivelling,  simulating  blindness,  deafness,  palsy. 
From  time  to  time  they  bring  rich  presents,  regarding 
these  as  good  investments  for  the  future,  competing  one 
with  another  for  Volpone's  favour.  But  of  them  enough 
has  now  been  said.  On  three  carefully  selected  speci- 
mens of  the  tribe,  Volt  ore,  Corbaccio,  and  Corvino 
.(Italian  for  vulture,  old  raven,  and  spruce  young  crow), 
the  action  of  the  drama  turns ;  and  in  my  analysis  of 
the  play  we  shall  hear  more  about  them. 

Eight  instinct  led  Jonson  to  lay  the  scene  in  Venice, 
and  to  make  his  hero  a  Magnifico  of  the  Eepublic. 
He  has  conceived  Volpone  as  a  man  in  green  old  age, 
sound  still  of  constitution,  enjoying  the  possession  of 
his  senses  and  his  intellect.  Craft  and  extravagant 
voluptuousness  form  the  main-springs  of  his  character. 
He  has  grown  hoary  in  vice,  and  nothing  now  delights 
him  more  than  the  spectacle  of  human  baseness. 
Therefore  he  expends  his  more  than  ordinary  mental 
powers  and  ill-acquired  knowledge  of  the  world  on  \^ 
subtle  schemes  for  making  life  a  comedy,  and  proving 
all  the  men  around  him  knaves  and  fools.  He  is  avari- 
cious but  not  blinded  by  the  love  of  gold.  Wealth  he 
values  chiefly  as  the  means  for  tempting  and  corrupting 
others,  after  he  has  surfeited  himself  with  every  pleasure 


72  Ben  Jon^on 

it  can  purchase.  Fantastic  in  his  sensuality,  he  lives  . 
like  a  Koman  of  the  Empire  or  an  Oriental,  secluded 
from  the  world  among  his  creatures — the  parasite,  the 
pigmy,  the  eunuch,  and  the  page.  To  this  curious 
company  Jonson  has  given  descriptive  names — Mosca, 
the  fly-  Nano,  the  dwarf;  Castrone,  the  wether; 
Androgyno,  the  hermaphrodite.  Mosca  is  the  Fox's 
right  hand.  Without  him  Volpone's  schemes  would  be 
impracticable ;  and  the  ruin,  which  comes  upon  him  in 
the  end,  is  due  to  his  habit  of  regarding  this  devil  of 
roguery  as^^econd  self.  In  Mosca  Jonson  paints  a 
monumental  portrait  of  the  parasite,  as  he  may  possibly 
have  existed  at  the  worst  courts  in  the  most  debased 
epochs  of  civilisation.  Plausible,  ingenious,  pliant  to 
his  master's  whims,  loving  evil  for  its  own  sake,  Mosca 
glides  through  the  dangerous  and  complicated  circum- 
stances of  their  common  plots  with  the  suppleness  and 
quickness  of  a  serpent.  But  when  he  sees  the  way  to 
^  build  up  his  own  fortunes-  on  Volpone's  downfall,  he 
turns  round  suddenly,  implacably,  upon  his  patron. 
With  the  same  cold  cynicism  which  he  had  used  against 
Corbaccio  to  tickle  the  Fox's  fancy,  he  now  lays  his  fox- 
trap.  How  both  fall  eventually  into  it  togethep-^we 
shall  see: 

I  have  said  that  Jonson  obeyed  a  right  instinct  when 
he  laid  the  scene  of  this  comedy  in  Venice.  The  exor- 
bitances and  eccentricities  of  evil  he  has  chosen  to 
depict,  would  have  gained  but  little  credence  if  the 
action  had  taken  place  in  London.  But  the  sensualities , 
of  Aretino,  the  craft  of  Machiavelli,  the  diabolical  in- 
genuity of  Italian  despots,  lent  verisimilitude  to  his 
picture— Hhat  most  vivid  picture,'  in  Taine's  absurd 


Thr  Masterpieces  ^i 

enthusiastic  language,  '  of  the  manners  of  the  century, 
where  wicked  covetousnesses  display  themselves  in  their 
full  beauty,  where  sensuality,  cruelty,  lust  for  gold,  and 
the  impudicity  of  vice  develop  a  sinister  and  splendid 
poetry,  worthy  of  some  Bacchanalian  piece  by  Titian.^ 
-^  The  key-note  of  the  drama  is  struck  in  the  first  lines.  ^ 
Volpone  and  Mosca  are  discovered  in  a  room  of  the 
Venetian  palace,  standing  before  a  curtain  which  veils 
the  treasury.     Volpone  speaks  : — 

'Good  joining  to  the  "day  ;  arid  next,  my  gold  I         ^  (^ 
Open  the  shrine,  that  I  may  se^my  saint. 
Hail  the  world's  soul^nd  mine  i!     More  glad  than  is 
The  teeming  earth  to  ^^ee  the  l<!nged-f or  sun 
Peep  through  the  horn^  of  the/celestial  ram, 
Api  I,  to  view  thy  splendour  darkening  his ; 
That  lying  here,  amongsi  my/ other  hoards, 
Shew'st  like  a  flame  hy  nigh^,  or  like  the  day 
Struck  out  of  chaos,  when  ai^l  darkness  fled 
Unto  the  centre.     O  thou  sun  of  Sol, 
But  brighter  than  thy  father,  let  me  kiss, 
With  adoration,  thee,  and  every  relic 
Of  sacred  treasure  in  this  blessed  room. 
Well  did  wise  poets,  by  thy  glorious  name, 
Title  that  age  which  they  would  have  the  best ; 
Thou  being  the  best  of  things,  and  far  transcending 
All  style  of  joy  in  children,  parents,  friends, 
Or  any  other  waking  dream  on  earth. 
Thy  iooka  when  they  to  Venus  did  ascribe, 
They  should  have  given  her  twenty  thousand  Cupids ; 
Such  are  thy  beauties  and  our  loves  I     Dear  saint, 
Riches,  the  dumb  god,  that  giv'st  all  men  tongues, 
That  canst  do  naught,  and  yet  mak'st  men  do  all  things  ; 
.     The  price  of  souls ;  even  hell,  with  thee  to  boot. 
Is  made  worth  heaven.    Thou  art  virtue,  fame, 
Honour  and  all  things  else.    Who  can  get  thee. 
He  shall  be  noble,  valiant,  honest,  wise. 

Critics   have  judged  that  this  opening  invocation  to 


74  Ben  JoNSON 

tlie  presiding  deity  of  the  drama  rises  to  tragic  sub- 
imity.  Tlie  playwright  must  indeed  have>  had  full 
jonfidence  in  his  power  to  sustain  the  action  upon  a 
lorresponding  note  of  passionate  intensity,  when  he  com- 
>osed  it.  Nor  was  he  mistaken ;  for  Yolpone'a  rhetoric 
>f  adoration  lives  again  in  every  word  and  deed  of  all 
jhe  characters.  True  to  his  habit  of  firmly  expounding 
he  main  situation  and  the  leading  motives  of  his 
in  the  first  scene,  Jonson  next  makes 
"olpone  reflect  with  satisfaction  on  the  acquisition  of 
is  treasure : — 

Yet  I  glory 
Tore^in  the  cunning  purchase  of  my  wealth, 
Than  in  the  glad  possession,  since  I  gain 
No  common  way. 

It  is  not  by  trade,  industry,  agriculture,  usury,  hoarding, 
that  he  has  brought  together  '  the  price  of  souls.'  And 
he  can  afford  to  spend  it  freely.  Mosca  begs  for  a  trifle, 
and  Volpone  gives  him  gold^^  ^ 

What  should  I  do, 
But  cocker  up  my  genius,  and  live  free 
To  all  delights  my  fortune  calls  me  to  1 
I  have  no  wife,  no  parent,  child,  ally, 
To  give  my  substance  to  ;  but  whom  I  make, 
Must  be  my  heir  ;  and  this  makes  men  observe  me  : 
This  draws  new  clients  daily  to  my  house, 
Women  and  men  of  every  sex  and  age, 
That  bring  me  presents,  send  me  plate,  coin,  jewels, 
With  hope  that  when  I  die  (which  they  expect 
Each  greedy  minute)  it  shall  then  return 
Ten-fold  upon  them. 

While  he  is  thus  soliloquising,  the  dwarf,  page,  and 
eunuch  enter,  fantastically  attired,  and  play  a  comic 


The  Masterpieces  75 

farce  with  songs  to  entertain  him ;  in  the  middle  of 
which  show  his  clients  begin  to  gather. 

Fetch  me  my  gown, 
My  furs  and  night-caps  ;  say,  my  couch  is  changing  : 
And  let  him  entertain  himself  awhile 
Without  i' the  gallery.     Now,  now  my  clients 
Begin  their  visitation  I     Vulture,  kite, 

Kaven  and  gorcrow,  all  my  birds  of  prey,  , 

That  think  me  turning  carcase,  now  they  come ; 
I  am  not  for  them  yet  I 

The  first  to  appear  is  Voltore,  the  advocate.  He 
has  brought  a  massive  piece  of  plate,  which  he  thrusts 
into  Volpone's  trembling  hands,  feebly  lifted  from  the 
counterpane  to  clutch  it.  Yoltore  gloats  over  the  thin 
and  quavering  accents  of  thanks,  which  come,  half- 
smothered  in  choking  coughs,  from  beneath  the 
bed-clothes ;  and  then,  without  taking  the  trouble  to 
withdraw  from  the  sick  man's  chamber,  he  turns  to 
Mosca : — 

Volt.  Pray  thee,  hear  me : 

Am  I  inscribed  his  heir  for  certain  ? 

Moi.  Are  you  ? 

I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  you  will  vouchsafe 
To  write  me  in  your  family.     All  my  hopes 
Depend  upon  your  worship :  I  am  lost, 
Except  the  rising  sun  do  shine  on  me. 

Volt.     It  shall  both  shine  and  warm  thee,  Mosca. 

Mos,  Sir, 

I  am  a  man,  that  hath  not  done  your  love 
All  the  worst  offices  :  here  I  wear  your  keys, 
See  all  your  coffers  and  your  caskets  lock'd, 
Keep  the  poor  inventory  of  your  jewels. 
Your  plate  and  monies ;  am  your  steward,  sir, 
Husband  your  goods  here. 

Volt,  But  am  I  sole  heir  ? 

Mos,    Without  a  partner,, sir ;  confirm'd  this  morning : 


76  Ben  Jonson 

The  wax  is  warm  yet,  and  the  ink  scarce  dry 

Upon  the  parchment. 
Volt.  Happy,  happy  me  1 

By  what  good  chance,  sweet  Mosca  1 
Mas.  Your  desert,  sir. 

They  are  yet  talking,  when  a  second  knock  is  heard 
upon  the  door  without.  Yoltore  has  but  just  time  to 
creep  away,  and  Volpone  to  jump  up  and  kiss  Mosca 
for  the  excellent  sport,  before  Corbaecio  appears.  The 
Old  Raven  is  a  masterpiece  of  Jonson's  dreadful  art. 
Deaf,  worn  out  with  the  diseases  of  extreme  old  age, 
he  yet  clings  sordidly  to  the  miserable  shreds  of  life,  and 
burdens  his  last  days  with  detestable  crimes  for  the  sake 
of  the  gold  he  cannot  carry  with  him  beyond  the  tomb. 
He  has  brought  an  opiate  : — 

3fos.    He  will  not  hear  of  drugs. 

Corb.  Whjr  1  I  myself 

Stood  by  while  it  w^as  made,  saw  all  the  ingredients ; 
And  know,  it  cannot  but  most  gently  work  : 
My  life  for  his,  'tis  but  to  make  him  sleep. 

VoJj?.    Ay,  his  last  sleep,  if  he  would  take  it.  [Aside. 

The  reader  must  remember  that  these  scenes  are 
enacted  in  the  presence  of  Volpone,  who  is  supposed  to 
be  stone-deaf  and  blind,  but  who  hears  and  sees  every- 
thing with  lynx  eyes  and  fox's  ears  from  behind  his 
bed-curtains.  The  situation  lends  itself  to  accumulated 
touches  of  saturnine  humour.  Mosca  paints  a  fancy 
picture  of  his  master's  disorders — apoplexy,  palsy, 
vertigo,  loathsome  affections  of  the  mucous  membrane. 
Old  Corbaccio  recognises  and  ticks  off  the  symptoms. 
They  are  familiar  to  himself: — 

Yet  I  am  better,  ha  1 
Excellent,  excellent !     Sure  I  shall  outlast  him  : 
This  makes  me  young  again,  a  score  of  years. 


The  Masterpieces  77 

Being  far  more  deaf  than  Volpone,  he  stumbles  into 
ludicrous  mistakes  of  Mosca's  meaning,  each  of  which  is 
so  contrived  as  to  reveal  his  one  absorbing  preoccupa- 
tion with  the  Fox's  inheritance.  It  is  only  by  stimu- 
lating his  jealousy  of  Voltore  that  the  parasite  brings 
him  to  lay  down  a  heavy  bag  of  cash  as  goodwill  offer- 
ing. Then  Mosca  undertakes  to  induce  Volpone  to 
execute  a  will  in  his  favour ;  but  in  order  to  ensure 
success,  would  it  not  be  well  if  Corbaccio  should  also 
make  a  will  in  favour  of  Volpone  ?  So  signal  a  mark  of 
devotion  is  certain  to  clinch  the  dying  man's  gratitude. 
Corbaccio  doubts  for  a  moment  whether  he  can  disin- 
herit his  son  ;  but  Mosca  urges  that  Volpone  is  sure  to 
die  first.  That  argument  cannot  be  resisted,  and 
Corbaccio  adopts  the  plan  as  though  he  had  invented 

it:— 

.  .  Coi'h.   He  must  pronounce  me  his  ? 
Mos,     'Tis  true. 
Corh.   This  plot 

Did  I  think  on  before. 
Mos.    I  do  believe  it. 
Corh.   Do  you  not  believe  it  ? 
Mos.     Yes,  sir. 
Corh.   Mine  own  project. 
Mos.    Which,  when  he  hath  done,  sir 
Corh.   Published  me  his  heir  ? 
Mos.    And  you  so  certain  to  survive  him— — 
Corh.  Ay. 

Mos.    Being  so  lusty  a  man 

Corl.   'Tis  true.  : 

Mos.    Yes,  sir 

Corl),  I  thought  on  that  too.     See  how  he  should  be 
The  very  organ  to  express  my  thoughts  ! 

Mos.    You  have  not  only  done  yourself  a  good r- 

Corh.   But  multiplied  it  on  my  son. 
Mos.     'Tis  right,  sir. 
CJorl).   Still,  m^  inventipi^. 


/S  Ben  Jonson 

Corbaccio  departs  to  execute  tlie  unnatural  will,  no 

less  gulled  than  Yoltore  before  him.   Then,  while  Mosca 

and  his  patron  are  performing  an  interlude  of  mutual 

flattery  and  joy  at  their  successful   villainy,   a   third 

harpy  interrupts  them.    This  time  it  is  the  spruce  young 

merchant  Corvino.     He  is  the  most  contemptible  and 

reckless  of  the  set,  swallowing  any  bait,  committing 

himself  to  plans  for  Vol  pone's  murder  more  openly  thaii 

Corbaccio,  ready,  as  we  shall  see,  to  merge  his  ruling 

passion  of  jealousy  and  to  drown  his   honour  in  the 

madness  of  his  gold-lust.     Corvino  has  brought  a  fine 

pearl  for  his  present.     Volpone  faintly  murmurs  Signor 

Corvino  !  while  his  fingers  shut  upon  the  jewel.     This 

raises  Corvino's  suspicion.     Can  he  talk  freely  in  the 

bedchamber? 

Corv.  Does  he  not  perceive  us  ? 

Mas.    No  more  than  a  blind  harper.     He  knows  no  man, 

No  face  of  friend,  nor  name  of  any  servant ; 

"Who  'twas  that  fed  him  last  or  gave  him  driok. 

Corvino,  whom  Jonson  has  made  a  gross  and  brutal 
fellow  in  the  prime  of  vulgar  manhood,  in  order  to  con- 
trast him  with  the  lean  greediness  .of  Voltore  and 
Oorbaccio's  senile  delirium  of  covetousness,  now  pours 
loathsome  invectives  into  Volpone's  ears.  Mosca  flatters 
this  humour  to  the  bent,  heaping  hideous  imprecations 
on  the  prostrate  man.  Yet,  when  Corvino  departs, 
Volpone's  cynicism  is  so  marble-hard  that  he  oilly 
applauds  the  gruesome  comedy  which  should  have  made 
him  tremble.  He  leaps  from  his  bed,  tired,  but  satisfied 
with  his  morning's  imposture. 

My  divine  Mosca  I        ■ , 
Thou  hast  to-day  outgone  thyself.  [KnooMiig  wit/im.']   Who's 
there? 


p 


The  Masterpieces  7g 

1  will  be  troubled  with  no  more.     Prepare 
Me  music,  dances,  banquets,  all  delights ; 
The  Turk  is  not  more  sensual  in  his  pleasures 
Than  will  Volpone. 


Mosca  goes  out  and  returns  with  the  news  that 
Lady  Would-be,  wife  to  an  English  knight,  seeks  an 
interview.  This  time  she  must  content  herself  \\4th 
being  Lady  Cannot-be  ;  for  Volpone  will  have  none  of 
her,  though  it  is  hinted  that  she  is  ready  to  give  hini 
everything.  He  spends  an  hour  more  agreeably  by 
listening  to  Mosca's  glowing  description  of  Celia — the 
young,  beautiful,  and  virtuous  wife  of  Corvino.  And 
thus  the  first  act  closes. 

In  this  act  Jonson  has  introduced  us  to  the  chief 
personages  of  the  drama.  They  are  drawn  with  grim 
precision,  in  bold  lines,  as  ugly  and  as  natural  as  the 
dwarfs  and  monarchs  of  Velasquez.  Also,  their  work 
has  been  cut  out  for  them ;  and  the  mention  of  Celia 
in  the  last  scene  prepares  us  for  what  follows  in  the 
second  act. 

The  tying  and  unloosing  of  the  plot  in  this  mis- 
nomered  comedy  shall  be  related  more  briefly.  Volpone, 
obeying  his  humour  for  fantastic  pleasure  and  extrava- 
gant disguises,  goes  forth  to  win  a  sight  of  Celia.  He 
attires  himself  in  the  costume  of  a  quack  doctor,  Mosca 
in  that  of  the  charlatan's  drudge.  They  set  up  their 
platform  under  Corvino's  windows.  Volpone  acts  the 
mountebank  with  such  spirit  that  Celia  is  drawn  to  the 
balcony,  and  while  she  takes  her  pastime  of  the  crowd, 
her  husband  rushes  in  and  drags  her  to  a  back  room 
with  brutar  insults.  The  man  is  here  revealed  under 
the  violent  pressure  of.  coarse  jealousy,  just  at  the  very 


8o-  Ben  Jonson 

momenfc  when  he  will  be  made  to  sacrifice  his  honour  to 
his  avarice.  Mosca  is  sent  to  work  upon  his  master- 
passion  ;  for  the  sight  of  Celia  has  persuaded  Yolpone 
that  she  and  none  but  she  can  satisfy  his  appetite.  Cor- 
vino  then  is  told  by  Mosca  that  the  mountebank's  powders  - 
have  revived  the  Fox,  and  that  nothing  is  wanting  to- 
his -cure  but  the  warmth  of  an  Abishag  to  comfort  his 
decrepitude.  The  doctors  and  the  legacy-hunters  are 
vying  with  each  other  in  offering  their  nearest  relatives. 

Mos.  They  are  all 

Now  striving  who  shall  first  present  him ;  therefore-^ 
.....  Have  you  no  kinswoman  1 
Odso  1  Think,  think,  think,  think,  think,  think,  sir. 
One  of  the  doctors  offered  there  his  daughter. 

Corv I  will  prevent  him.     Wretch  1 

Covetous  wretch !     Mosca,  I  have  determined. 

Most.  How,  sir  ? 

Corv.  We'll  make  all  sure.     The  party  you  wot  of 
Shall  be  mine  own  wife,  Mosca. 

After  this  master-stroke  of  villainy,  we  do  not  wonder 
at  Mosca's  breaking  into  a  soliloquy  upon  his  superiority 
to  common  city-parasites  and  trencher-scrapers.  _ 

Meanwhile  the  plot  is  now  in  full  swing.  Corvino 
drags  his  outraged  wife  with  blows  and  gross  taunts  to 
Ybl pone's  bedside.  When  he  has  withdrawn,  the  Fo:^ 
throws  off  his  mask  and  falls  at  Celia's  feet : — 

Nay,  fly  me  not, 
Nor  let  thy  false  imagination 
That  I  was  bed-rid  make  thee  think  I  am  so ; 
Thou  shalt  not  find  it.     I  am  now  as  fresh, 
As  hot,  as  high,  and  in  as  jovial  plight 
As  when,  in  that  so  celebrated  scene, 
At  recitation  of  our  comedy, 
For  entertainment  of  the  great  Valois, 
J  acted  young  Antinous, 


The  Masterpieces  8 1 

This  introduces  a  scene,  in  wliicli  Jon  son  lias  given 
rein  to  his  peculiar  fancy.  Every  word  used  by  Volpono 
to  ply  Celia,  every  voluptuous  image  he  suggests,  is 
drawn  from  some  repository  of  antique  conceits ;  but 
these  are  so  fused  and  interwoven  that  they  appear  to 
be  the  natural  utterance  of  a  hoary  sybarite's  desire. 
She,  who  had  shrunk  with  horror  from  the  bed  of  a 
diseased  and  drivelling  old  man,  sees  before  her  an 
eloquent  and  insidious  seducer.  She  shrieks  for  suc- 
cour ;  and  at  her  cries  BonQj-io,  Corbaccio's  son,  appears 
to  rescue  her.  This  young  man  had  been  hidden  in  a 
gallery  by  Mosca,  in  order  that  he  might  be  witness  to 
the  act  whereby  his  father  meant  to  disavow  and  dis- 
inherit him.  The  parasite,  it  seems,  had  hoped  to  work 
upon  his  natural  resentment  so  that  he  should  commit 
some  act  of  violence — either  murder  Corbaccio  or  com- 
-  promise  himself  by  yielding  to  his  own  fury.  I  shall  take 
-©icasion,  later  on,  to  criticise  this  motive  on  its  artistic 
rSipits ;  for  the  present,  it  is  enough  to  point  out  that 
it  brings  about  the  first  catastrophe  in  the  drama. 

Volpone  stands  unmasked.  Bonario  carries  off  the 
rescued  lady.  And  at  this  juncture  Voltore  appears^ 
while  Corbaccio  comes  hobbling  in  with  his  will  signed 
and  attested.  It  looks  as  though  the  Fox  were  at  his 
last  gasp.  But  Mosca  rises  to  the  occasion.  He  has 
be,m  wounded  in  the  scuffle  with  Bonario.  Now  he 
takes  both  victims  of  gold-lust  in  hand.  Voltore  is 
persuaded  that  Corbaccio's  will  was  meant  to  swell 
Volpone's  fortune  in  the  lawyer's  interest.  Corbaccio  is 
made  to  believe  that  his  son  has  been  lurking  in  the 
palace  to  take  his  father's  life  before  it  was  too  late 
to  save  his  own  estate.     Corvino  has  also  to  be  settled; 

G 


82  Ben  Jonson 

but  Mosca  works  with  ease  upon  the  grossness  of  his  I 
avaricious  appetite.  The  three  legacy-hunters,  hating 
each  other  as  they  do,  yet  severally  blinded  by  their 
covetOusness,  are  combined  into  one  band  to  extricate 
Volpone  from  his  difficulties.  They  have  to  swear  that 
Celia  and  Bonario  have  been  guilty  lovers,  and  that 
each  was  practising  against  the  Fox  in  his  own  palace. 
These  parts  they  play  in  open  court,  the  one  vying 
•against  the  other  in  false-sweariig  and  in  ventilating 
his  own  shame.  Lady  Would-be  is  dragged  opportunely  ^ 
into  the  same  meshes  of  intrigue,  and  gives  suspicious 
testimony  to  Celia's  public  wantonness.  Mosca  drives 
the  discordant  team  with  consummate  skill  and  audacity.  ' 
They  perjure  themselves,  repudiate  their  kindred,  stamp 
the  brand  of  dishonour  on  their  foreheads,  labouring  with 
avidity  to  win  Volpone  and  secure  his  fortune,  in  their 
blindness,  each  for  his  own  self.  The  fixed  idea  of 
wealth  to  be  inherited  has  taken  hold  upon  their  brains, 
and,  like  clockwork,  they  strike  true  to  the  machinery 
invented  for  them. 

Justice  is  baffled  for  the  moment.  Under  the 
deluge  of  adroitly  prepared  false  witness,  the  judges, 
who  were  favourable  to  Bonario  and  Celia,  admit  that  a 
monstrous  case  has  been  made  put  against  them.  Vol- 
pone, who  appeared  in  court  bed-ridden,  is  carried  home . 
to  his  palace,  and  there  he  hugs  Mosca  for  the  success 
of  their  deeply  laid  plots.    This  opens  the  fifth  act ;  and 

*  here,  in  a  sense,  the  drama  is  concluded.  But  it  was 
required  by  Jonson's  plan  that  poetical  justice  should 

V  be  done,  and  that  the  Fox  should  finally  be  caught. 
The  poet  has  heaped  ignominy  on  the  legacy-hunters. 
But  he  leaves  two  innocent  persons,  Bonario  and  Celia, 


The  Masterpieces  S3 

under  unmerited  disgrace.  His  work  will  not  be 
finished  until  Volpone  and  the  parasite  have  been  taken 
in  their  own  toils.  At  this  juncture  he  calls  the  Ate 
of  the  gods,  the  insolence  of  guilty  creatures  swollen.  ^ 
with  their  own  conceit,  to  the  aid  of  his  languishing 
intrigue.  Volpone  is  so  intoxicated  with  the  triumph 
of  his  craft,  so  contemptuous  of  human  nature,  that  he 
resolves  to  indulge  his  cynicism  with  a  new  trick.  He 
feigns  death,  and  gives  to  Mosca  a  will  in  which  the 
parasite's  name  is  inserted  as  sole  heir.  The  captatores 
scent  the  carcass.  First  comes  Voltore ;  then  Corbaccio, 
^carried  in  a  chair ;  next  Corvino ;  lastly,  Lady  Would- 
%6.  Mosca  receives  them  in  the  palace,  allowing  them 
to  dangle  at  his  heels.  He  holds  an  inventory  in  his 
hands,  which  he  checks  by  items  in  the  several  apart- 
ments. They  raise  a  fugue  of  clamorous  entreaties  to 
see  the  will,  each  firmly  believing  that  his  name  will 
be  written  there,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  rest.  Mosca, 
at  last,  flings  the  deed  over  his  shoulder,  and  the  fugue 
becomes  a  chorus  in  unison  of  indignant  objurgation. 
Mosca,  meanwhile,  goes  on  with  his  inventory :  ^  Two 
cabinets,  one  of  ebony,  the  other  mother-of-pearl — I  am 
very  busy ;  good  faith,  it  is  a  fortune  thrown  on  me — 
Item,  one  salt  of  onyx — not  of  my  seeking.'  One  after 
the  other  they  pounce  down  upon  him.  But  he  has  the 
sting  of  the  epigram  for  each.     To  Lady  Would-be  :— 

Remember  what  your  ladyship  offered  me, 
To  be  his  heir  I 

To  Corvino  :— 

You  are 
A  declared  cuckold  .... 
Qo  home,  be  melancholy  too,  or  mad. 

o2 


84  Ben  Jonson 

To  Corbaccio : — 

Are  you  not  he,  that  filthy,  covetous  wretch, 
AVith  the  three  legs,  that  here,  in  hope  of  prey, 
Have  any  time  this  three  years  snuffed  about 
AVith  your  most  grovelling  nose,  and  would  have  lured 
Me  to  the  poisoning  of  my  patron,  sir. 

All  slirink  away  except  Voltore,  who  lias  not  yet 

received  his  answer.     He  still  clings  wdtli  the  tenacity 

of  a  rapacious  bird  of  prey  to  his  imagined  quarry. 

Mosca  affects  to  ignore  him  : — 

Why,  who  are  you  1 
What  I  who  did  send  for  you  ?  0,  cry  you  mercy, 
Eeverend  sir  !     Good  faith,  I  am  grieved  for  you. 
That  any  chance  of  mine  should  thus  defeat 
Your  (I  must  needs  say)  most  deserving  travails. 

At  last  he  beats  him  off  with  insolence;  but  the 
heavy-pinioned  Vulture  is  sent  flying  on  an  errand 
which  shall  break  the  over- strained  meshes  of  the  close 
net  woven  round  him. 

Volpone,  as  usual,  has  witnessed  this  comedy  of 
thwarted  passions  from  his  hiding-place.  He  now  con- 
certs new  schemes  with  Mosca  for  the  bantering  of  his 
victims,  yielding  yet  once  again  to  the  intoxication  of  self- 
conceit.  Mosca  is  to  assume  the  robes  of  a  Magnifico ; 
his  master  the  dress  of  a  common  sheriffs  officer.  Thus 
attired,  they  roam  the  streets  of  Venice,  jeering  at  the 
disappointed  captatores.  The  game,  however,  has  been 
carried  too  far.  It  is  the  hour  at  w^hich  Bonario  and 
Celia  have  to  receive  sentence  from  the  judges.  All  the 
actors  of  the  drama  assemble  in  court,  led  by  various 
curiosities.  Then,  to  the  surprise  of  every  one,  Voltore, 
wiio  has  been  _ maddened   by  disappointment  and  en* 


The  Masterpieces  85 

venomed  against  his  rivals,  declares  the  stratagem  by 
which  the  guiltless  pair  have  been  drawn  to  the  verge 
of  ruin.  Still,  the  intrigue  is  not  ripe  for  its  cata- 
strophe. Yolpone,  beginning  to  suspect  that  Mosca  may 
play  him  false,  whispers  to  the  advocate  that  he  is  yet 
alive.  Voltore,  responding  to  his  dominant  motive, 
upon  this  hint  that  he  may  still  inherit,  repudiates 
what  he  has  just  delivered,  and  pretends  that  witchcraft 
has  deprived  him  of  his  reason.  The  judges  know  not 
what  course  to  take.  The  accused  stand  waiting  for 
their  sentence.  It  seems  as  though  no  issue  from  the 
deadlock  could  be  found.  But  at  this  moment  Mosca, 
who  has  hitherto  been  absent,  enters  the  court.  Vol- 
pone  runs  to  him,  as  to  his  last  resource  of  safety.  He 
is  met  with  boxes  on  the  ears  : — 

What  busy  knave  is  this  ?  .  .  .  . 

Whose  drunkard  is  this  same  ?  speak,  some  that  know  him  . 

I  never  saw  his  face. 

Mosca  is  playing  now  at  high  stakes.  Of  course  he 
recognises  his  patron,  and  he  offers,  in  asides,  to  com- 
pound with  him  for  half  of  Volpone's  estate.  But  the 
tension  is  too  great  for  compromise.  Fox  and  parasite/- 
are  equally  whirled  away  upon  the  tide  of  the  moment. 
The  judges  take  the  dispute  into  their  own  hands,  and 
order  Volpone  to  be  whipped,  that  he  may  bear  himself 
discreetly  to  a  gentleman  in  Mosca's  position.  Up  to 
the  last,  thus  Jonson  scourged  society's  adulation  of  ^ 
wealth ;  for  here  are  the  Venetian  officers  of  justice 
bending  before  an  enriched  parasite.  The  insult  rouses 
one  hot  drop  of  noble  blood  in  Volpone's  veins.  Rather 
than  tolerate  such  indignity,  h^  will  declare  all.     It  i^ 


S6  Ben  [onson 

only  tlie  affair  of  throwing  off  his  disguise.  This  he 
does,  and  in  one  moment  the  whole  plot  is  dissolved. 

I  am  Volpone,  and  this  is  my  knave. 

{Pointing  to  Mosca. 

Nothing  more  remains  but  the  vindication  of  the 
innocent,  and  a  proper  apportionment  of  punishments 
to  the  guilty. 

What  most  excites  admiration  in  '  Volpone  '  is  the 
sustained  jdgour  of  the  action,  and  the  ingenuity  of  the 
fable.  Few  extant  plays  exhibit  so  closely  connected 
an  intrigue.  The  mechanic  force  and  versatility  of 
invention  which  are  lavished  on  the  framework  of  this 
comedy  suffice  to  carry  the  reader  or  spectator  onward 
to  its  unforeseen  conclusion.  Yet  some  objections  may 
be  taken  to  the  plot.  As  Dryden  first  pointed  out,  the 
unity  of  action  is  not  well  preserved ;  one  motive  being 
exhausted  at  the  end  of  act  iv.,  '  the  second  forced  from 
it  in  act  v.'  The  slight  and  meagre  under-plot  of  Sir 
Politick  Would-be  and  his  wife  (which  I  have  omitted 
in  my  analysis,  except  in  so  far  as  Lady  Would-be  affects 
Volpone)  is  superfluous  and  tolerably  tedious.  But  the 
heaviest  blot  upon  Jonson's  construction  remains  to  be 
noted.  .  He  has  suggested  no  adequate  motive  for 
Mosca's  introduction  of  Bonario  into  Volpone's  palace, 
at  the  moment  when  Corbaccio  is  coming  to  execute 
his  will,  and  Celia  is  being  brought  by  her  unworthy 
husband.  Bonario's  presence  there  was  necessary  for 
the  conduct  of  the  intrigue.  But  this  circumstance 
hangs  upon  so  fine  a  thread  of  calculation  in  Mosca's 
brain,  that  we  must  regard  it  as  not  sufficiently  ac- 
counted  for.      In   all   other   respects,   the   use  which 


The  Masterpieces  87 

Jonson  has  made  of  base  passions  as  the  cords  of  human 
conduct  in  this  drama  may  be  looked  upon  as  masterly ; 
and  the  skill  with  which  he  has  woven  them  into  a 
comic  net  of  serried  strength  is  indubitable.  The 
spectacle,  alas!  is  too  grisly.  Nature  rebels  against  it. 
We  do  not  easTly  or  willingly  believe  that  men  and 
women  are  such  as  Jonson  painted  them.  We  rise 
from  the  study  of  'Yolpone/  as  we  do  from  that  of 
some  of  .Balzac's  masterpieces,  with  the  sense  that  all 
these  human  reptiles,  true  enough  in  their  main  points 
to  life,  yet  over-fattened  in  the  vast  slime  of  the  poet's 
brain,  ^represent  actual  humanity  less  than  they  per-r 
sonate  ideals,  which  the  potent  intellect,  brooding  upon 
one  vice  of  man's  frail  being,  has  diversified  into  a 
score  of  splendidly  imagined  specimens. 


^  THE  SILENT    WOMAN. 

P"^  I  treated  '  Volpone,  or  The  Fox '  by  analysis ;  and 
^is  possible  that  those  who  honour  human  nature  may 
resent  the  stringency  of  that  method  in  so  terrible  an 
instance.  It  was,  however,  necessary  to  show  Jonson 
in  his  strength.  In  dealing  with  'Epicoene,  or  The 
Silent  Woman,'  I  can  choose  the  method  of  description. 
Here  we  breathe  a  lighter  atmosphere.  The  pla}^  is 
still  more  subtly  woven ;  the  art  is  even  more  '  intense 
and  burning.'  But  the  subject-matter  is  no  longer 
wickedness  beyond  the  comic  poet's  lawful  scope.  We 
frolic  in  a  sphere  of  foibles  and  mirth-moving  eccen- 
tricities of  humour. 

''The  Silent  Woman'  received  a  splendid   euloo-y 


88  Ben  Jonson 

from  Dry  den.  ^I  prefer  it  before  all  other  plays,  I 
think  justly,  as  I  do  its  author,  in  judgment,  above  all 
other  poets/  In  his  '  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poetry '  he  sub- 
mitted this  comedy  to  close  examination,  praising  ^  the  . 

V  copiousness  and  well-knitting  of  the  intrigue,'  the  skill 
with  which  the  characters  are  introduced  to  notice 
before  they  appear  upon  the  stage,  and  the  continual - 
heightening  of  the  interest.  It  has  for  him  the  highest 
value,  because  the  unities  are  strictly,  yet  naturally, 
observed,  and  the  connection  or  liaison  of  scene  with 
scene  is  perfect.  The  action  is  complete  within  the  space 
of  twelve  hours.  It  takes  place  almost  entirely  in  the 
rooms  of  a  single  house ;  and  each  incident  contributes 
to  the  final  catastrophe.  Lastly,  the  plot,  when  it  has 
reached  a  point,  of  apparently  hopeless  entanglement, 
is  suddenly  and  triumphantly  unravelled  by  a  disclosure 

X  which  satisfies  all  conditions  of  easy  denouement^  and 
has  the  further  merit  of  casting  ridicule  upon  the  false 
pretences  of  the  minor  characters. 

Like  all  of  Jonson's  works,  'The  Silent  Woman' 
illustrates  the  constructive  ability  of  its  author  rathei: 
than  the  laws  of  artistic  growth  from  within.  We  can 
see  how  it  has  been  put  together.  We  do  not  watch  it 
expanding  and  spreading  fantastic  boughs  like  a  comedy 
of  Aristophanes.  Yet  the  architecture  is  so  flawless 
that  the  connection  of  each  part  seems  to  be  inevitable. 
From  the  interlude  between  acts.i.  and  ii.  of  'The 
Magnetic  Lady,'  we  know  that  Jonson  attached  much 
.  value  to  Aristotle's  rules  for  the  formation  of  a  comedy ; 
and  Dry  den  has  devoted  some  pages  of  his  essay  to  an 
analysis  of  these  rules,  which  are  admirably  illustrated 
by  '  The  Silent  Woman,'     Though  their  terms  have  a 


The  Masterpieces  89 

pedantic  sound  for  modern  ears^  I  sliall  call  attention 
to  them  here,  if  only  for  the  purpose  of  introducing  my 
readers  to  the  sphere  of  ideas  in  which  the  poet  moved 
when  he  created  this  play.  The  Protasis,  or  first  part 
of  a  drama,  sets  forth  the  persons.  The  Epitasis,  or 
working  up  of  the  plot,  puts  the  action  into  movement. 
The  Catastasis  gives  the  height  or  full  growth  of  the 
play,  at  which  point  the  action  is  perplexed,  and  what 
seemed  easy  of  achievement  is  deferred  by  obstacles. 
The  Catastrophe,  or  the  denouement,  sets  all  straight, 
and  brings  things  back  to  such  a  state  as  enables  tbo 
first  expectations  of  the  audience,  founded  upon  their 
judgment  of  the  persons  and  the  plot,  to  be  satisfied 
by  the  natural  conclusion  of  the  action.  The  divisions 
here  indicated  are  not  merely  arbitrary.  Some  such 
arrangement  and  coherence  of  parts  will  be  observed  in 
all  good  plays ;  it  is,  for  instance,  the  importance  of  the 
Catastasis  which  makes  French  critics  insist  so  strongly 
on  the  claims  of  the  Fourth  Act.  Nowhere  is  this  order 
more  nicely  observed  than  in  '  The  Silent  Woman.' 

Though  so  artfully  constructed,  '  Epicoene '  rather 
deserves  the  name  of  a  Titanic  farce  than  of  a  just 
comedy.  It  does  not,  like  '  Volpone,'  exhibit  a  ruling 
vice,  but  exposes  a  ludicrous  personal  peculiarity  in  the 
main  actor.  On  Morose's  .horror  of  noise  every  incident 
is  made  to  hinge,  and  the  various  humours  of  the  minor 
characters  are  severally  related  to  this  leading  motive. 
The  satire  oj  the  play  is  superficial.  A  conceited  fop, 
a  boastful  poetaster,  and  a  Ladies'  College,  or  Society 
of  Precieuses  Kidicules,  whom  Jonson  displays  as  a 
peculiarly  vulgar  set  of  coarse  and  pretentious  women, 
furnish  but  slio^ht  themes  for  ethical  censure.     Jonson'a 


90  Ben  Jonson 

objectjw'as  to  make  us  laugh.  On  the  stage  of  Pande- 
monium devils  might  have  laughed  at  '  Volpone.'  It  is 
difficult  to  imagine  a  human  audience  deriving  mere 
amusement  from  that  spectacle  of  enormous  wickedness. 
But  '  The  Silent  Woman '  stirs  genial  mirth  in  an  ever 
increasing  degree ;  and  what  may  also  here  be  added, 
the  manners  and  conversation  of  the  persons  in  this 
/play,  especially  of  the  young  men,  are  both  more 
^natural  and  more  entertaining  than  is  common  with 
Jonson.  '  As  Dryden  remarked,  ^  he  has  here  described 
the  conversation  of  gentlemen  with  more  gaiety,  air,, 
and  freedom,  than  in  the  rest,  of  his  comedies.' 

Morose  is  a  churlish  old  man  of  good  fortune,  who 
hates  his  nephew,  and  refuses  to  make  him  any  reason- 
able allowance.  His  nerves  are  morbidly  sensitive  to 
noise,  and  he  spends  his  life  chiefly  in  securing  himself. 
against  this  special  annoyance.  It  is  the  object  of 
Dauphine,  his  nephew,  to  wring  a  p6rtion  of  the  cur- 
mudgeon's wealth  from  him  by  working  on  his  suscepti-, 
bility.  Before  we  meet  with  Morose,  we  are  informed 
that  he  '  hath  chosen  a  street  to  lie  in  so  narrow  at 
both  ends  that  it  will  receive  no  coaches  nor  carts  nor 
any  of  these  common  noises.'  He  carries  on  a  guerilla 
warfare  against  fish-wives,  chimney-sweepers,  orange- 
women,  costermongers,  broom-men,  and  other  street- 
criers.  Smiths,  armorers,  and  braziers  are  not  suffered 
by  him  to  live  in  the  same  parish.  '  He  would  have 
hanged  a  pewterer's  prentice,  once  upon  a  Shrove- 
Tuesday's  riot,  for  being  of  that  trade,  when  the  rest 
were  quit.'  His  sitting-room  has  double  doors  and 
treble  ceilings ;  quilts  and  beds  are  nailed  against  the 
house-door ;  inside,  the  shutters  are  closed,  the  window- 


The  Masterpieces  91 

cracks  caulked,  the  staircase  laid  with  mattresses.  Here 
Morose  lives  by  candlelight.  One  footman  has  been 
turned  away  because  his  shoes  creaked.  The  new 
servant,  Mute,  wears  list  upon  his  soles,  and  communi- 
cates with  his  master  by  dumb-show.  But  though 
Morose  devotes  all  his  energies  to  avoiding  noise,  he 
loves  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  and  preaches  inter- 
minable sermons  to  his  valet  on  the  virtue  of  silence. 
y  All  discourses  but  my  own  afflict  me ;  they  seem  harsh, 
impertinent,  irksome.' 

Dryden  says  that  Jonson  studied  this  fantastic 
character  from  a  real  person.  Gilford  has  traced  it  to  a 
passage  in  Libanius.  The  admirable  spirit  with  which 
the  humour  is  maintained  makes  it  both  natural  and 
original.  Wherever  he  derived  the  hint.  Morose  is 
Jonson's  own. 

The  misanthropist  has  resolved  to  balk  his  nephew's  v 
expectations  by  marrying  and  getting  an  heir  to  his 
estate.  The  problem  is  how  to  secure  a  noiseless  wife ; 
for  nothing  is  more  notorious  than  woman's  garrulity. 
Dauphine,  becoming  acquainted  with  his  uncle's  inten- 
tion, forms  a  plot,  which  he  conducts  with  admirable 
skill,  to  catch  Morose  in  a  trap.  He  conceals  the  point 
of  it  even  frpm  the  friends  and  accomplices  whom  he 
summons  to  his  aid.  But  we,  who  are  neither  agents 
nor  spectators,  may  forestall  the  catastrophe,  and  declare 
at  once  that  Dauphine  has  dressed  a  comely  page  in 
woman's  clothes,  and  placed  him  in  lodgings  near  his 
uncle's  house.  Epicoene,  as.  the  lad  is  called,  assumes 
silence  so  discreet  that  it  only  relaxes  under  urgent 
necessity  into  whispered  monosyllables.  Pier  fame 
reaches  Morose.     After  an  interview,  in  which  he  is 


92  Ben  Jonson 

charmed  to  find  that  he  can  barely  catch  the  few  words 
she  utters,  he  determines  to  marry  her  ofF-hand. 

When  Dauphine  receives  intelligence  of  this  resolve, 
he  summons  his  accomplices ;  and  these,  we  must 
remember,  are  unconscious  of  his  project.  They  obey 
his  whim,  as  they  think,  for  the  mere  persecution  of 
Morose.  Clerimont  and  Truewit,  the  companions  of  his 
youth,  first  answer  to  the  summons.  Then  come  Sir 
John  Daw,  the  poetaster ;  and  Amorous  La  Foole,  the' 
fop.  Otter,  a  rowdy  captain  and  bear-leader,  with  his 
notable  wife,  joins  the  gang.  Three  ladies  collegiate — 
Mistress  Haughty,  Centaure,  and  Dol  Mavis — follow 
scent.  Dauphine  is  able  to  turn  the  whole  kennel  loose 
upon  his  uncle  by  the  fortunate  circumstance  that  La 
Foole  has  invited  them  to  eat  at  Captain  Otter's.  It  is 
only  necessary  that  they  should  transfer  their  company 
to  the  house  of  Morose.  And  for  this  they  have  a  good 
excuse,  inasmuch  as  Epicoene  is  known  as  a  girl  to  all 
of  them,  and  she  will  naturally  expect  congratulations 
on  her  wedding-day. 

Dauphine  has,  however,  no  intention  of  allowing 
misfortunes  to  fall  pell-mell  upon  his  uncle.  The  old 
man  must  be  brought  by  degrees  to  mortification. 
Accordingly  this  portion  of  the  comedy  exhibits  the 
young  man's  skill  in  marshalling  the  troops  which  are 
destined  to  make  Morose  capitulate.  No  sooner  has 
the  wedding  been  completed,  and  the  parson  sent  about 
his  business,  than  Epicoene  finds  her  tongue.  The 
bridegroom  objects  that  he  had  not  bargained  for  his 
wife's  eloquence  in  the  marriage  contract.  She  cuts 
him  short :  ^  What !  did  you  think  you  had  married  a 
statue — one  of  the  French  puppets  with  the  eyes  turned 


The  Masterpieces  93 

v/ith  a  wire  ? '  Then  slie  pours  forth  such  a  wordy 
deluge  that  he  relapses,  groaning :  '  She  is  my  regent 
already.  I  have  married  a  Penthesilea,  a  Semiramis, 
and  sold  my  liberty  to  a  distaff.'  This  is  only  the 
beginning  of  his  troubles.  When  the  nuptial  altercation 
is  at  its  height,  Truewit  enters,  loudly  complimenting 
the  bride  and  congratulating  Morose.  Sir  John  Daw, 
with  four  of  the  ladiea,  next  makes  his  appearance;  and 
the  dialogue  becomes  an  orchestral  symphony  in  seven 
pronounced  parts.  Not-  one  of  the  vocal  instruments 
plays  '  piano,'  for  each  of  the  unwelcome  visitors  has 
taken  his  cue  from  Dauphin e.  Epicoene  receives  them 
all  with  boisterous  cordiality ;  while  Morose  is  fain  to 
sit  apart,  drawing  a  treble  nightcap  over  his  forehead 
and  stopping  both  his  ears.  The  guests  ply  him  in  his 
corner,  shake  him  by  the  elbow,  complain  there  are 
no  gloves,  no  bride-cake,  no  music,  no  masque.  While 
they  are  rating  him  for  meanness  and  rusticity,  Clerimont 
arrives  to  remedy  the  bridegroom's  negligence  with  a 
variety  of  bands,  which  strike  up  all  together.  La  Foole 
and  his  attendants,  at  the  same  time,  pass  across  the 
stage  rattling  knives  and  forks,  and  carrying  a  banquet 
for  the  wedding  company.  They  are  closely  followed 
by  Captain  Otter,  with  his  bull  and  bear  and  horse,  and 
their  accompanying  drums  and  fifes.  The  dissonance 
gathers  in  complexity  and  volume.  Fiddles  squeak, 
trumpets  bray,  beasts  begin  to  growl.  The  women 
scream  and  giggle  in  one  corner  \  in  another,  Captain 
Otter  organises  a  drinking-bout,  stamping  on  the  floor, 
and  bellowing  to  his  boon  companions  'Niino  est  hlhendiim, 
mine  jpede  lihero  pidsanda  telhis !  Morose  can  only 
groan   out    lamentable    'Ohs'   and   'Ahs,'   his   feeble 


94  ^  Ben  Jonson 

execrations  being  drowned  in  the  infernal  hubbub  round 
him.  At  last  he  runs  away  and  hides ;  but  the  uproar 
swells  to  a  climax.  Mrs.  Otter  quarrels  with  her 
husband;  the  howls  of  conjugal  battle  rise  above  the 
clatter  of  contending  voices  and  the  piercing  music  of  the 
trump  and  fife.  This  '  crescendo '  is  suddenly  cut  short 
by  the  maddened  Morose  descending  from  his  lurking- 
place,  and  scattering  the  tormentors  with  a  drawn  sword. 

They  only  part  to  recombine.  But,  in  the  lucid 
interval  of  dearly  purchased  quiet,  Morose  is  driven  to 
seek  sympathy  from  Dauphine.  While  he  is  pouring 
forth  his  woes  into  that  perfidious  ear,  Epicoene  rushes 
in  and  overwhelms  him  with  inquiries  about  his  health. 
It  is  of  no  use  to  answer  that  he  is  quite  well.  She 
pursues  him  with  solicitous  endearments:  his  staring 
eyes,  his  pallid  cheeks — what  do  they  mean?  Then 
the  chorus  bursts  on  his  devoted  head.  Every  known 
malady  is  suggested,  and  the  most  preposterous  remedies 
are  recommended.  After  a  prolonged  altercation  over  his 
stunned  person,  all  agree  in  prescribing  a  continuous 
course  of  reading  aloud.  This  charms  Epicoene.  What 
could  be  more  fitting  than  that  a  devoted  wife  should 
read  her  afflicted  husband  to  rest  ?  Morose  feebly 
remonstrates,  and  begs  to  be  allowed  to  sleep  at  least  in 
peace.  But  no,  his  bride  must  be  his  bedfellow ;  and 
he  now  hears,  with  despair,  for  the  first  time,  that  she 
talks  volubly  in  her  sleep,  and  snores  like  a  porpoise. 

In  his  anguish  he  bethinks  him  of  divorce.  Rushing 
from  his  house,  he  goes  in  search  of  counsel.  But  long 
retirement  has  rendered  him  so  helpless  that  he  returns 
bewildered  by  the  jargon  of  the  law  courts.  Dauphine 
seems  to  be  his  only  mainstay ;    and  Dauphine  under- 


The  Masterpieces  95 

,  takes  to  procure  learned  doctors,  ecclesiastical  and  civil, 
who  shall  meet  and  advise  at  his  own  house.  Two  of 
the  conspirators  are  accordingly  disguised  in  legal  robes 
and  primed  with  Latin  terms.  They  retire  with  Morose 
into  a  chamber  apart,  and  confer  upon  the  proper  con- 
duct of  his  divorce  case.  Their  pedantic  glosses,  pre- 
ambles, long-winded  definitions,  distinctions,  and  loud 
professional  skirmishings  are  so  wrought  as  to  bring 
Morose  to  the  verge  of  delirium.    After  many  ineffectual 

.  attempts  to  find  an  adequate  reason  for  putting  away  his 
wife,  he  is  forced  to  plead  his  own  incapacity.  But  at 
this  moment  of  expected  deliverance,  Epicoene  breaks 
in  with  all  her  company,  screaming  against  the  plot  on 
foot  against  her  rights,  and  vowing  she  will  keep  her 
spouse  in  spite  of  every  defect.  Morose  scores  nothing 
therefore  by  his  ignominious  admission.  Meanwhile, 
Dauphine,  by  threats  and  cajolements,  has  induced  Sir 
John  Daw  and  La  Foole  severally  to  tax  Epicoene  with 
the  granting  of  improper  favours  to  them  in  past  weeks 
of  intimacy.  The  hopes  of  Morose  are  now  again  lifted 
high.  Epicoene,  for  her  part,  shrieks  hysterically ;  and 
all  the  women  gather  round  her  with  sympathetic 
ululations.  Then  the  lawyer  raises  his  voice  above  the 
storm,  and  declares  that,  since  Epicoene  has  not  been 
faithless  to  her  husband  after  marriage,  there  is  no 
ground  for  divorce  upon  the  plea  of  previous  unchastity. 
Thus  every  chance  of  freedom  from  his  bondage  is  cut  off 
from  the  unhappy  bridegroom.  After  the  discreditable 
confession  which  he  has  falsely  made,  ^nd  the  proof  of 
immorality  upon  his  wife's  part,  he  is  left  wedded  to  a 
termagant  for  life. 

That  the  knot  should  be  cut  appears  impossible. 


•  g6  Ben  Jonson 

Only  two  of  tlie  persons  concerned  in'  tlie  action, 
•  Dauphine  and  Epicoene,  know  tlie  real  state  of  the 
case.  The  rest  are  enjoying  this  bear-baifcing  of  the 
miserable  bridegroom ;  when  Dauphine  comes  forward 
and  swears  to  free  his  uncle,  if  he  will  allow  him  five 
hundred  pounds  a  year  and  secure  him  the  reversion 
of  his  estate.  Morose,  like  a  drowning  man,  catches 
greedily  at  the  plank  held  out  to  him.  Before  witnesses 
he  consents  to  his  nephew's  terms.  Dauphine  has 
V^  nothing  more  to  do  than  to  reveal  the  sex  of  Epicoene. 
^  Morose  fades  away  from  us,  infinitely  relieved,  to  nurse 
his  outraged  sense  of  hearing.  La  Foole  and  Daw  are 
covered  with  contempt  for  their  pretensions  to  the 
favours  of  the  girl  who  is  now  shown  to  be  a  strapping 
lad.  The  rest  of  the  company  retire  hugely  gratified 
by  so  b.urlesque  a  termination  to  so  comical  an  enter- 
tainment. Not  less  contented  are  the  spectators  or  the 
readers  of  this  colossal  farce;  and  the  curtain  falk 
upon  a  general  satisfaction. 

In  a  theatre  of  Jonson's  period,  the  catastrophe 
must  have  afforded  special  amusement  to  the  audience. 
Boys,  as  we  well  know,  then  played  female  parts.  It 
was  consequently  pleasant  to  see  a  real  boy  acting  the 
role  of  a  boy  who  is  disguised  as  a  woman,  and  finally 
proved  to  be  a  boy  in  theatrical  fact,  which,  both  in 
travesty  and  earnest,  he  had  all  the  time  been  truly. 
Such  complications  of  the  sexes  on  the  stage,  as  might 
be  amply  proved  from  the  Elizabethan  drama,  whetted 
the  curiosity  of  play-goers ;  and  here  Jonson  gave  them 
a  tangled  knot  to  untie.  ' 

Yet  Drummond,  probably  upon  Jonson's  information, 
relates  that,  '  When  his  play  of  a  ^^ Silent  Woman"  was 


Thi^  Masterpieces  97 

first  acted,  ttere  was  found  verses  after  on  the  stage 
against  liim,  concluding  that  that  play  was  well  named 
the  silent  woman,  there  was  never  one  man  to  say 
P] audit e  to  it.' 


THE  ALCHEMIST.  /  ^ 

In  '  The  Alchemist '  we  return  from  the  region  of 
broad  farce  to  that  of  social  satire.  Yet  the  satire  of  this 
comedy  is  not  so  biting  as  that  of '  Volpone.'  Imposture 
and  folly,  instead  of  crime  and  heartlessness,  are  here  at- 
tacked ;  and  the  plot  has  a  burlesque  termination,  more 
pleasing  than  the  almost  tragic  end  of  '  The  Fox.' 

Alchemy  in  Jonson's  day  was  not  a  mere  relic  of 
antiquarian  iionsense.  It  befooled  the  people  still ;  and, 
in  spite  of  royal  edicts^  could  with  difficulty  be  eradi- 
cated from  their  superstitious  veneration.  Those  who 
are  acquaijited  with  the  history  of  the  Venetian  Braga- 
dino  (about  1600)  know  to  what  an  incredible  extent 
courts  and  princes  lent  their  weight  to  this  delusion. 
Yet  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  it  had  lost 
its  scientific  or  quasi-scientific  aspect,  and  had  become 
allied  to  the  gross  knaveries  of  sharpers,  coney-catchers, 
quack-doctors,  and  horoscope-casters.  Alchemy,  there- 
fore, like  knight-errantry,  now  exposed  itself  to  comic 
ridicule  \  and  Jonson  attempted  to  do  for  it  what  Cer- 
vantes in '  Don  Quixote '  had  already  done  for  the  decayed 
forms  of  chivalrous  enthusiasm.  He  was  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  books  of  the  alchemists  ;  and  it 
appears  that,  at  some  period  of  his  life,  he  had  himself 
practised   in   fun   upon   the   credulity   of   the   public, 


98  Ben  Jonson 

reliearsing,  as  it  were,  the  scenes  wliicli  afterwards  lie 
invented  for  Subtle.  As  Drummond  reports,  '  He  with 
the  consent  of  a  friend  cozened  a  lady,  with  whom  he 
had  made  an  appointment,  to  meet  an  old  astrologer  in 
the  suburbs,  which  she  kept ;  and  it  was  himself  dis- 
guised in  a  long  gown  and  a  white  beard,  at  the  light  of 
dim  burning  candles,  up  in  a  little  cabinet  reached  unto 
by  a  ladder.' 

In  order  to  make  this  subject  worthy  of  high  comedy, 
it  was  needful  to  elevate  the  Alchemist  into  a  type  of 
all  practisers  by  fraud  on  human  folly.  And  herein 
Jonson  succeeded.  His  hero  Subtle,  and  the  confede- 
rates Face  and  Doll,  personify  the  scientific  charlatan 
and  solemn  knave,  with  his  indispensable  accomplices, 
who  will  continue  to  flourish  so  long  as  nature  is 
mysterious  and  mankind  is  gullible.  In  our  age  we  find 
the  breed  plentifully  represented  by  spiritualists,  clair- 
voyants, theosophists,  and  thought-readers.  Jonson, 
therefore,  attained  the  object  of  comic  satire.  While 
exposing  a  contemporary  phase  of  imposture  and  its 
corresponding  credulity,  he  painted  a  picture  which, 
deducting  purely  local  colouring,  remains  true  to  the 
permanent  facts  of  human  roguery  and  weakness.  And 
this  he  did  by  dwelling .  on  the  passions  of  Subtle's 
dupes.  He  shows  how  the  desire  to  become  suddenly 
rich,  blending  with  hypocrisy,  lust,  stolid  stupidity, 
vulgar  craft,  and  mean  ambition,  bring  the  Puritan,  the 
city  knight,  the  grocer,  the  lawyer's  clerk,  and  the  little 
country  squireen  severally  into  the  sharper's  clutches. ' 

The  action  of  '  The  Alchemist '  is  very  simple. 
Master  Lovewit,  a  widower,  has  left  his  town-house  in 
the  charge  of  a  servant;  Jeremy  Face,  and  travelled  into 


The  Masterpieces.  99 

the  country  for  a  change  of  scene.  Face,  in  his  master's 
absence,  comes  across  a  cheating  rascal  and  his  female 
accomplice,  named  Subtle  and  Doll.  Subtle  is  a  really 
clever  rogue,  and  Doll  a  passably  handsome  wench. 
But  they  happen  at  this  moment  to  be  down  upon  their 
luck.  Forming  acquaintance  with  this  pair  and  per- 
ceiving them  to  be  kindred  spirits,  the  caretaker  of 
Master  Lovewit's  mansion  suggests  that  they  shall  all 
three  inhabit  its  empty  rooms,  and  live  upon  their  wits 
by  gulling  the  public.  This  proposal  exactly  suits  the 
out-at-elbow  brace  of  sharpers;  and  when  the  pla^f 
opens,  we  find  the  confederated  ensconced  in  Lovewit's 
LgncLon  house.  Subtle'has  to  act  the  part  of  charlatan, 
alchemist,  astrologer,  quack-doctor,  chiromantist,  meto- 
poscopist,  and  what  not.  Face  takes  upon  himself  a 
double  office.  Inside  the  house,  he  is  Subtle's  under- 
strapper, familiar,  bellows-blower,  drug-preparer,  varlet, 
Ulen-Spiegel.  Outside,  he  assumes  the  character  of 
one  of  those  dubious  captains,  who  then  infested 
taverns,  ordinaries,  play-houses,  and  the  aisles  of  St. 
Paul's,  on  the  beat  for  simpletons  to  fleece.  In  his 
latter  capacity  he  brings  dupes  to  Subtle,  and  in  his 
former  he  helps  Subtle  to  empty  their  pockets.  Doll, 
meanwhile,  stays  at  home,  in  readiness  to  make  herself 
an  enticing  gentlewoman  in  distress,  a  flaunting  mis- 
tress of  the  demi-^nonde^  a  queen  of  the  fairies,  or  a 
maiden  medium,  as  chance  may  require.  Each  taking 
a  tolerably  equal  part  in  the  imposture,  they,  agree  to 
share  equally,  working  for  a  common  purse  and  dividing 
its  contents  between  thenu^^,.-^-'^ 

A  variety  of  silly  creatures  fall  into  the  snares  of 

this  vutuous  trioi     Dapper^  tne  lawyers  clerk,  w£o 
■       -  h2 


lOo  ^       Ben  JoNSON 

wants  a  ^  fly.^  or  familiar  spirit,  to  make  liim  win  upon 
tlie  turf  and  gain  at  games  of  hazard.  Abel  Drngger, 
the  tobacconist  and  grocer,  who  believ^es  his  shop  will 
prosper,  if  he  can  purchase  planetary  symbols  for  its 
timbers.  yTribulation  Wholesome  and  Ananias,  two 
Puritans  of  Amsterrdam,  who  traffic  with  the  powers  of 
darkness  in  the  interests  of  their  conventicle.  Kastril, 
a  country  gentleman,  ambitious  of  flying  high  in  town, 
and  winning  for  his  widowed  sister.  Dame  Pliant,  an 
aristocratic  second  husband.  These  are  the  small  fry 
who  swarm  round  Subtle.  But  he  also  has  a  big  carp 
by  the  gills.  This  is  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  already 
rich  enough,  but  inflated  with  visions  of  wealth  beyond 
the  dreams  of  avarice.  At  Mammon's  heels  hangs  a 
candid  friend,  named  Surly,  far  too  familiar  with  this 
world's  ways  to  let  himself  be  duped.  Surly  is  a  prac- 
tised gamester ;  and  his  cunning,  set  against  that  of 
the  impostors,  throws  their  schemes  into  confusion.  At 
the  height  of  the  imbroglio,  caused  by  Surly's  inter- 
ference, Lovewit  returns  to  London.  Face  makes  terms 
with  him  at  first  sight.  The  rogues  and  dupes  are  sent 
about  their  business.  Lovewit  wins  Dame  Pliant  and 
her  fortune  ;  and  the  rascally  servant  is  pardoned  for 
the  mirth  afforded  .to  his  wit-loving  master. 

The  first  scene  o^^ens  on  Subtle  and  Face  quarrelling 
like  pickpockets.  Modern  readers  of  a  popular  book 
can  hardly  be  expected  to  stomach  their  realistically 
coarse  abuse.  Otherwise,  I  would  gladly  have  tran- 
scribed at  length  this  altercation,  which  proves  beyond 
doubt  Jonson's  power  of  painting  in  strong  colours 
from  the  vulgar  model.  Hogarth's  picture  of  the  Pake 
in  the  French  surgeon's  con,sulting-room  is  not  more 


The  Masterpieces  ioi 

bluiltly  triithfLil;  and  when  Doll  bursts  iii;  to  rr.te  both 

soundly,  and  remind  them  that  there  ,  is.  horonr  even 

among  thieves,  her  Newgate  slang  completes:  ^jhe  feithful 

transcript  from  low  life  : — 

'Sdcatli,  you  abominable  pair  of  stinkard?, 

Leave  off  your  barking,  and  grow  one  again, 

Or,  by  the  light  that  shines,  I'll  cut  your  throats. 

I'll  not  be  made  a  prey  unto  the  marshal, 

For  ne'er  a  snarling  dog-bolt  of  you  both. 

Have  you  together  cozened  all  this  while. 

And  all  the  world,  and  shall  it  now  be  said 

You've  made  most  courteous  shift  to  cozen  yourselves  ? 

The  reconciliation  of  Subtle  with  Face,  following  sud- 
denly upon  their  quarrel,  is  no  less  naturally  presented : 

Sub.  I'll  conform  myself. 

J)ol.    Will  you,  sir  1  do  so  then,  and  quickly  !     Swear. 
Sill).    What  should  I  swear  1 
'   Dol.  To  leave  your  faction,  sir, 

And  labour  kindly  in  the  common  work. 
Sal).     Let  me  not  breathe  if  I  meant  aught  beside. 

I  only  used  those  speeches  as  a  spur 

To  him. 
Dol.    .  I  hope  we  need  no  spurs,  sir.     Do  we  1 

Face.  'Slid,  prove  to-day,  who  shall  shark  best. 
Sill).    Agreed. 

J)ol.  Yes,  and  work  close  and  friendly. 

Sub.     'Slight,  the  knot 

Shall  grow  the  stronger  for  this  breach,  with  me. 

By  the  firm  touches  of  this  opening  scene  we  have  the 
three  rogues  set  before  us  in  their  worthlessness. 

A  knock  at  the  house-door  interrupts  them  ;  and 
the  dupes  begin  to  put  in  their  appearance.  The  first 
is  Dapper.  Subtle  has  time  to  don  his. cap  and  velvet 
gown.  Face  receives  the  clerk,  and  acts  a  comedy  \Vith 
his  confederate,  persuading  him  with   great  apparent 


102  Ben  Jonson 

difficulty  to--a>3eept  four  angels  as  a  fee.  Dapper  is  a 
betting-man  ©f  the  same  kind  as  those  clerks  who  now 
I'isk  tkeir'  salaries,  and  at  times  their  master's  money,  on 
small  turf  transactions.  Subtle  pretends  to  see  some- 
thing extraordinary  in  the  fool's  face,  and  takes  the 
captain  aside : — 

^Suh.     Why,  sir ^.Offering  to  ivlds^jer  Face. 

Face.  No  whispering. 

Suh.     Fore  heaven,  you  not  apprehend  the  loss 

You  do  yourself  in  this. 
Face,  Wherein  ?  for  what  ? 
Stib.     Marry,  to  be  so  importunate  for  one, 

That,  when  he  has  it,  will  undo  you  all : 

He'll  win  up  all  the  money  in  the  town. 
Face.  How? 
Suh.     Yes,  and  blow  up  gamester  after  gamester, 

As  they  do  crackers  in  a  puppet-play. 

If  I  do  give  him  a  familiar. 

Give  you  him  all  you  play  for ;  never  set  him  : 

For  he  will  have  it. 
Face.  You  are  mistaken,  doctor. 

Why,  he  does  ask  one  but  for  cups  arid  horses, 

A  rifling  fly  ;  none  of  your  great  familiars. 
Bap.    Yes,  captain,  I  would  have  it  for  all  games. 

Thus  Dapper,  who  has  been  allowed  to  overhear  their 
whispering,  is  cozened  into  paying  down  his  uttermost 
farthing  for  a  spirit  which  shall  make  him  master  of  the 
company  he  plays  with.  He  resolves  at  once  to  leave 
the  law,  and  puts  himself  blindly  in  the  hands  of  the 
wheedling  rascals. 

On  the  heels  of  Dapper  comes  another  gull,  the 
tobacconist  Drugger.  He  invokes  necromancy  for  in- 
structions where  to  make  his  door,  where  to  ]3ut  up  his 
shelves,  and  which  to  use  for  pots,  and  which  for  boxes. 
Face  warrants  him  for  an  honest  fellow : — 


The  Masterpieces  103 

Doctor,  do  you  hear  ? 
This  is  my  friend,  Abel,  an  honest  fellow ; 
He  lets  me  have  good  tobacco,  and  he  does  not 
Sophisticate  it  with  sack-lees  or  oil. 
Nor  washes  it  in  muscadel  or  grains, 
Nor  buries  it  in  gravel,  under  ground, 
Wrapp'd  up  in  greasy  leather,  or  piss'd  clouts  : 
But  keeps  it  in  fine  lily  pots,  that,  open'd, 
Smell  like  conserve  of  roses  or  French  beans. 
He  has  his  maple  block,  his  silver  tongs, 
Winchester  pipes,  and  fire  of  juniper  : 
A  neat,  spruce,  honest  fellow,  and  no  goldsmith. 

Subtle  angles  for  him  as  he  did  for  Dapper.  He  pre- 
tends by  metoposcopy  to  discern  wonderful  signs  of 
good  luck  in  his  forehead,  and  by  chiromancy  reads 
future  greatness  in  his  finger  nails.  The  first  act  is 
occupied  with  these  minor  characters,  both  of  whom 
play  their  part  in  the  development  of  the  plot,  and  serve 
meanwhile  to  prepare  us  for  the  real  hero  of  the  piece. 
This  is  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  whose  loud,  coarse,  strident 
voice  is  heard  when  the  curtain  rises  for  the  second  act. 
He  and  his  friend  Surly  have  just  entered  the  sharper's 
lodging  : — 

Come  on,  sir.     Now  you  set  your  foot  on  shore 

In  Novo  Orbe  ;  here's  the  rich  Peru  : 

And  there  within,  sir,  are  the  golden  mines. 

Great  Solomon's  Ophir  !  he  was  sailing  to 

Three  years,  but  we  have  reached  it  in  ten  months. 

This  is  the  day,  wherein,  to  all  my  friends, 

I  will  pronounce  the  happy  word.  Be  EICH  ; 

This  day  you  shall  be  spectatissimi. 

After  drawing  money  from  the  knight  on  various  pre- 
tences of  making  experiments  in  the  transmutation  of 
metals,  Surfy^has  felt  himself  compelled  at  last  to  pro- 
mise the  projection  of  the  philosopher's  stone  for  this 


104  '      ^EN  Jons  ON 

day.  He  and  Face  count  meanwliile  on  Mammon's 
grosser  nature  for  putting  him  oif  with  a  failure.  As 
his  name  denotes,  the  greedy  monster  is  no  less  a  slave 
to  his  sensual  appetites  than  to  his  thirst  for  money ; 
and  here  lies  the  secret  of  their  plot  to  cozen  him. 

1  Mammon  is  the  twin-brother  of  Tamburlaine  in  his 
extravagant  conceits.  Compact  of  lust  and  avarice,  he 
revels  in  the  wildest  dreams  of  luxury  and  wealth  ;  vows 
that  he  will  buy  up  all  the  mines  of  Cornwall  and 
transmute  their  lead  and  copper  into  gold;  that  the 
voluptuous  pictures  which 

Tiberius  took 
From  Elephantis,  and  dull  Aretine 
But  coldly  imitated, 

shall  burn  upon  his  palace  walls ;  that  the  feasts  and 
sports  of  insolent  Kome  shall  be  repeated  in  his  revel- 
ries ;  that  he  will  lie  on  beds  blown  up  with  air  and 
clothe  himself  in  robes  of  cobweb  texture.  With  the 
strength  of  the  elixir  of  eternal  youth,  he  will  rival 
Hercules  in  feats  of  brawny  sensuality.  London  shall 
be  freed  from  plague  by  daily  distribution  of  the  pre- 
cious draught.  Waxing  intoxicate  with  his  own  visions 
of  a  bestial  joy,  he  swears  he  will  have  none  but  virtuous 
wives  for  mistresses,  fathers  for  go-betweens,  divines  for 
parasites,  the  burghers  of  the  city  for  fools,  the  Don 
Juans  of  the  Court  for  eunuchs.  His  wealth  shall  pur- 
chase every  delicacy  that  the  most  preposterous  fancy 
can  devise  to  sate  the  palate  : — 

My  meat  shall  all  come  in,  in  Indian  shells, 
Dishes  of  agate  set  in  gold  and  studded 
With  emeralds,  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  rubies. 
The  tongues  of  carps,  dormice,  and  camel's  heels, 
Boil'd  in  the  spirit  of  sol,  and  dissolv'd  pearl, 


The  Masterpieces  105    . 

Apicitis'  diet,  'gainst  the  epilepsy  : 

And  I  will  eat  these  broths  with  spoons  of  amber, 

Headed  with  diamond  and  carbuncle. 

My  foot-boy  shall  eat  pheasants,  calver'd  salmons, 

Knots,  godwits,  lampreys  :  I  myself  will  have 

The  beards  of  barbels  served,  instead  of  sallads  ; 

Oil'd  mushrooms ;  and  the  swelling  unctuous  paps 

Of  a  fat  pregnant  sov.%  newly  cut  off, 

Brest  with  an  exquisite  and  poignant  sauce  ; 

For  which,  I'll  say  unto  my  cook,  There's  gold. 

Go  forth,  and  be  a  hnight. 

Charles  Lamb  observes  with  justice :  '  If  there  be  no 
one  image  which  rises  to  the  height  of  the  sublime,  yet  /^ 
the  confluence  and  assemblage  of  them  all  produces  an 
effect  equal  to  the  grandest  poetry.'  It  was  in  such  a 
character  as  this  of  Mammon's  that  the  fervour  of 
Jonson's  genius,  fusing  the  varied  substances  of  learning 
into  burnished  Corinthian  brass,  displayed  itself  to  best 
advantage.  He  piled  Pelion  upon  Ossa  of  accumulated 
details ;  marshalled  cloud  after  cloud  across  the  sky  of 
fancy,  till  the  whole  range  of  vision  was  canopied  and 
rendered  gorgeous  by  superincumbent  masses  of  glowing 
imagery.  It  is  of  little  moment  to  demur  that  Mam- 
mon's day-dreams  are  incongruous  with  his  quality  of  a 
City  knight,  and  that  half  of  what  he  says  is  borrowed 
from  the  Augustan  Histories.  Jonson  was  depicting  a 
hyperbolical  character 7 /and  it  served  his  purpose  to 
gather  the  vices  and  luxuries  of  all  nations  into  one 
delirious  vision.  Sir  Epicure  Mammon  exhibits  in  his 
rhetoric  the  calenture  of  a  brain  inflamed  by  the  expecta- 
tion of  absolutely  illimitable  power  over  nature.  His 
fever  is  fed  by  all  the  items  of  sensuality  which  he  has 
gathered  from  commerce  with  men  and  books.  Not  a 
single  jot  or  tittle   of  the  monstrous  cornpound  lies 


io6  Ben  JoNsoN 

beyond  tlie  reach  of  one  who  holds  the  magic  stone  and 
quaffs  the  goblet  of  perpetual  youth.  The  exorbitance 
of  Mammon's  fancy  sinks  into  nothing  when  compared 
with  the  extravagance  of  the  idea  by  which  it  was 
excited.  And  yet  we  know  that  this  idea  possessed 
thousands  in  Renaissance  Europe.  Riches  and  the  long 
years  of  a  toilsome  life  had  been  lavished  in  every 
capital  on  the  mad  quest.  Bold  spirits,  after  finding 
despair  among  the  cinders  of  their  furnace  and  the  dust 
of  their  alembics,  had  spread  adventurous  sails  for 
El  Dorado.  Mammon,  in  his  lunes,  merely  rose  to  the 
height  of  the  insanity,  which  men  of  feebler  covetous- 
ness  narrowed  to  the  probabilities  of  common  life. 
Dapper  wanted  "  a  fly/'  to  cheat  at  horse-races. 
Drugger  asked  for  astrological  symbols,  to  improve  his 
trade.  The  elders  of  Amsterdam^^  whoao'  aipquaintftijjge^ 
we  havo  yot  to  "naftke,  were  for  buying  up  tongs  and 
shovels  to  transmute,  and  were  meditating  some  small 
revolution  in.  the  English  Church — ^not  grasping  the 
conception  that,  if  they  really  held  the  stone  and  the 
elixir,  they  might  purchase  counties  or  continents, 
change  the  laws  of  society,  and  deal  at  pleasure  with 
the  foundations  of  human  nature^J  Surly  interrupts  his 
friend  in  the  full  flow  of  eloquence  : — 

Sitr.     And  do  you  think  to  have  the  stone  with  this  ? 

Mam.  No,  I  do  think  t'have  all  this  with  the  stone. 

Sur,    Why,  I  have  heard,  he  must  be  homo  frugif 
A  pious,  holy,  and  religious  m?.n, 
One  free  from  mortal  sin,  a  very  virgin. 

Ma7n.  That  makes  it,  sir  ;  he  is  so  :  but  I  buy  it ; 

My  venture  brings  it  me.     He,  honest  wretch, 
A  notable,  superstitious,  good  soul, 
Has  worn  his  knees  bare,  and  his  slippers  bald, 
With  prayer  and  fasting  for  it ;  and^  sir,  let  him 


The  Masterpieces  107 

Do, it  alone,  for  me,  still.     Here  lie  comes* 
Not  a  profane  word  afore  him :  'tis  poison. 

This  introduces  Subtle  in  his  character  of  sanctimonious 
devotee  to  philanthropic  science.  Maddened  by  his 
own  imaginatioUj  Mammon  had  omitted  to  reflect  how 
unlikely  it  was  that  a  sage  who  could  perform  the 
miracles  he  momently  expected,  would  work  for  so  arro- 
gant, insolent,  and  crassly  ignorant  a  brute  as  himself. 
The  affectation  of  holiness,  unselfishness,  and  purity 
was  the  backdoor  by  which  impostors  of  Subtle's  type 
secured  their  retreat.  They  knew  that  the  Mammons 
of  this  world  came  to  them  with  lust  and  greed  in  their 
souls ;  but  they  overlooked  this,  and  impressed  on  their 
neophytes  the  absolute  necessity  of  a  clean  heart  and 
a  disinterested  spirit.  At  the  same  time  they  took  care 
to  throw  temptation  in  their  way ;  and  Doll  Common 
was  the  vulgar  trap  in  which  our  Alchemist  caught  Sir 
Epicure.  The  dupe  meanwhile  fondly  fancied  that  if  he 
kept  his  secret  lust  concealed  until  the  projection  was 
accomplished,  all  would  go  well.  Subtle  is  at  pains 
to  warn  Mammon.  Scarcely  have  they  exchanged  good 
morrow  than  he  reads  him  this  lecture : — 

Son,  I  doubt 
Tou  are  covetous,  that  thus  you  meet  your  time 
In  the  just  point :  prevent  your  day  at  morning. 
This  argues  something,  worthy  of  a  fear 
Of  importune  and  carnal  appetite. 
Take  heed  you  do  not  cause  the  blessing  leave  you, 
AVith  your  ungovern'd  haste.     I  should  be  sorry 
To  see  my  labours,  now  even  at  perfection, 
Got  by  long  watching  and  large  patience. 
Not  prosper  where  my  love  and  zeal  hath  placed  them. 
Which  (heaven  I  call  to  witness,  with  yourself. 
To  whom  I  have  pour'd  my  thoughts)  in  all  my  ends. 


io8  Ben  Jonson 

Have  look'd  no  way,  but  unto  public  good, 
To  pious  uses,  and  dear  charity, 
Now  grown  a  prodigy  with  men.    Wherein 
If  you,  my  son,  should  now  prevaricate, 
And,  to  your  own  particular  lusts  employ 
So  great  and  catholic  a  bliss,  be  sure 
A  curse  will  follow,  yea,  and  overtake 
Your  subtle  and  most  secret  ways. 

Mammon  lyingly  replies  : — 

I  assure  you, 
I  shall  employ  it  all  in  pious  uses, 
Founding  of  colleges  and  grammar  schools, 
Marrying  young  virgins,  building  hospitals, 
And  now  and  then  a  church. 

The  Alchemist,  who  is  aware  that  Face  has  established 
an  intrigue  between  Doll  and  the  knight,  can  now  con- 
fidently appoint  a  solemn  hour  when  the  great  work 
shall  be  accomplished.  Mammon  departs,  and  returns 
true  to  the  hour  of  his  appointment,  but  with  the  guilt 
of  his  flirtation  with  Doll  upon  his  conscience.  A  crash 
is  heard  ;  crucibles  fly  into  the  air ;  Subtle  swoons,  and, 
waking  from  his  trance,  inveighs  so  solemnly  against 
the  lust  which  frustrated  his  watchings,  labours,  and 
pious  intentions,  that  Mammon  has  humbly  to  beg 
pardon  of  the  man  who  hoaxed  him. 

Apart  from  the  characters  of  Subtle,  Face,  and 
Mammon,  the  chief  interest  of  this  play  centres  in 
Jonson's  treatment  of  the  Puritans.  He  was  the 
avowed  foe  of  their  hypocrisy,  the  remorseless  satirist 
of  their  inurbane  manners,  and  the  witty  caricaturist  of 
their  canting  phraseology.  The  two  who  figure  in  '  The 
Alchemist '  are  powerfully  etched  with  sharp  burin 
strokes,  deeply  bitten  into  the  copper-plate.     Tribula- 


The  Masterpieces  109 

tibn  Wliolesome  and  Ananias,  this  pair  of  worthies, 
form  together  a  gross  compendium  of  ignorance,  super- 
stition, coarse  spiritual  covetousness,  intolerance,  men- 
dacity, and  reptile  casuistry.  It  would  be  painful,  but 
for  the  artist's  light  of  comic  humour  shed  upon  the 
loathsome  objects  of  his  satire,  to  approach  them. 
Whether  Jonson  was  fair  to  the  Puritans,  as  he  had 
learned  to  know  them,  is  a  problem  now  beyond  dispute. 
Yet,  when  I  consider  that  it  is  not  altogether  difficult  to 
find  a  match  for  these  personages  in  contemporary  life, 
I  am  inclined  to  give  my  vote  in  favour  of  Jonson's 
veracity. 

Tribulation  plays  the  part  of  general  referee  and 
divine  instructor  to  his  sect.  He  is  withal  their  am- 
bassador, man  of  business,  and  'very  zealous  pastor.' 
Ananias  is  younger,  more  fervid,  more  pugnacious,  more 
crassly  stupid  and  intransigeant,  more  profoundly  ill- 
educated  and  incapable  of  mundane  courtesies.  Whole- 
some argues  with  this  deacon  upon  the  need  of  using 
Subtle  in  order  to  procure  money  for  the  godly  cause. 

The  whelp  whines  answer  :— 

In  pure  zeal 
I  do  not  like  the  man  ;  he  is  a  heathen 
And  speaks  the  language  of  Canaan  truly. 

W^holesome  admits  that  Subtle  is  a  profane  person ;  but 
Ananias  takes  him  up  intemperately : — 

He  bears 
The  visible  mark  of  the  beast  in  his  forehead  ;• 
And  for  his  stone,  it  is  a  work  of  darkness, 
And  with  philosophy  blinds  the  eyes  of  men. 

The  fact  is  that  Ananias,  with  the  acute  nose  of  a 
hound,  has  smelt  the  fox  in  Subtle.  Wholesome,  who 
has   more   sophisticated    instincts,    plies    his    younger 


no  Ben  JoNSON 

brother  with  true  Puritan  Jesuistry.  Is  there  not  an 
art,  he  says,  for  making  good  come  out  of  evil,  for  using 
impure  means  to  propagate  and  fundamentally  establish 
a  holy  cause  ?  Ananias,  touched  in  his  major  passion 
of  covetousness,  now  declares  that  he  has  never  been 
so  edified  before ;  and  the  two  elders  enter  the 
Alchemist's  sanctuary.  Subtle  receives  Wholesome 
without  superfluous  ceremony,  but  his  coldness  turns 
to  indignation  at  the  sight  of  Ananias.  In  him  he 
recognises  an  enemy  of  stubborn  mettle,  who  has  to  be 
brow-beaten  and  subdued.  The  astuteness  with  which 
he  alternately  snubs  the  priggishness  of  Ananias,  and 
plays  upon  his  avarice,  deserves  all  commendation. 
First  he  unfolds  before  his  dupes  a  scheme  of  temporal 
and  spiritual  aggrandisement  w^hich  absorbs  them  both, 
until  the  zeal  of  Ananias  is  offended  by  the  mention  of 
a  bell :  '  Bells  are  profane  ;  a  tune  may  be  religious.' 
Again,  when  the  word  tradition  is  dropped,  it  rouses  the 
conscientious  scruples  of  the  deacon  :  '  I  hate  traditions ; 
I  do  not  trust  them.'  Subtle  and  Face  ply  him  with 
alchemistic  jargon.  Ananias  snuffles  out:  ^I  under- 
stand no  heathen  language,  truly.'  This  makes  Subtle 
mad: — 

Heathen  I  you  knipper-doling  I     Is  Ars  Sacra, 
Or  chrysopcEia,  or  spagyria, 
Or  the  pamphysic  or  panarchic  knowledge, 
A  heathen  language  ? 

'  Heathen  Greek,  I  take  it/  persists  Ananias ;  ^  all's 
heathen  but  the  Hebrew.' 


The  Masterpieces  hi 


BARTHOLOMEW  FAIR. 


^  Bartholomew  Fair '  is  a^r^  farce,  conceived  in  tTie 
spirit  of  rollicking  mirth,  and  executed  with  colossal 
energy.  It  is  no  satire  eithe?  of  manners  or  of  in- 
dividuals, but  a  broad  Dutch  painting  of  the  humours  of 
a  London  Carnival,  such  as  only  a  man  bred  from  boy- 
hood to  the  town  could  have  xDroduced.  The  personages 
are  admirably  studied  and  grouped  together  with  con- 
summate insight  into  dramatic  effect.  The  proctor,  with 
his  pretty  wife  and  puritanical  mother-in-law  ;  the  sleek 
minister  from  Banbury,  who  woos  the  widow;  the 
squire  from  Harrow,  and  his  watchful  attendant ;  the 
justice  of  the  peace,  for  ever  blundering  in  his  pre- 
posterous disguises ;  the  ginger-bread  women  and  toy- 
shop people ;  the  greasy  cook,  who  sells  roast  pig  and 
carries  on  more  questionable  business;  the  bailiffs, 
watchmen,  sharpers,  and  bullies,  who  abound  in  every 
booth ;  the  puppet-show,  the  ballad  singer,  the  mad- 
man, and  the  miscellaneous  crowd  of  costermongers, 
porters,  pickpockets,  and  passengers,  compose  one  varied 
ever-moving  kaleidoscope  of  human  beings. 

We  are  introduced  into  this  motley  crowd  by  a 
device  which:  enables  the  playwright  to  contrast  the 
coarse  diversions  of  Smithfield  with  the  cantkig 
squeamishness  of  the  vulgar  Puritans,  who  supply  his 
scenes  with  their  most  lively  humours.  Dame  Pure- 
craft's  daughter,  Win-the-fight,  married  to  doltish  John 
Littlewit  the  proctor,  is  in  an  interesting  situation,  and 
manifests  caprices  pardonable  in  her  state  of  health. 


ii2  Ben  JonsoN 

She  lias  conceived  an  irresistible  longing  to  eat  roast 
pig  at  Bartholomew  Fair.  This,  like  the  wrath  of 
Achilles  in  the  Iliad,  is  the  motive-passion  of  the 
comedy.  ,  Roast  pigf  at  home  will  not  content  her...  The 
vpi^  on  which  her  heart  i^  f^f^  "^npit  hp  ri^^^^'^j  ^"d  Pgjen 
in  a  boot [i  ^nt  Smithfield .  A  matron  like  Dame  Pure^ 
craft  found  herself  thus  placed  in  a  position  involving 
casuistry.  On  the  one  hand  she  dared  not  contradict 
her  daughter's  longings,  however  unreasonable  they 
might  be,  and  however  unlawful  this  particular  longing 
was  according  to  her  creed.  She  attempts  at  first  the 
way  of  admonition  and  discouragement : — 

Look  up,  sweet  Win-the-figlit,  and  suffer  not  the  enemy  to  enter 
you  at  this  door ;  remember  that  your  education  has  been  with  the 
purest.  What  polluted  one  was  it  that  named  first  the  unclean 
beast,  pig,  to  you,  child  1 

When  Mrs.  Little  wit    has    reluctantly   admitted   how 

the  longing  came  upon  her,  Dame  Purecraft  resumes 

her  godly  exhortations : — 

O,  resist  it,  Win-the-fight  I  It^is  the  tempter,  the  wicked 
tempter,  you  may  know  it  by  the  fleshly  motion  of  the  pig ;  be 
strong  against  it  and  its  foul  temptations,  in  these  assaults,  whereby 
it  broacheth  flesh  and  blood,  as  it  were  on  the  weaker  side ;  and 
pray  against  its  carnal  provocations ;  good  child,  sweet  child,  pray. 

§uch  pleading  is,  however,  all  to  no  purpose.  Jdig. 
.Littlewit  is  resolved  to  eat  pig  in  a  bootji.  or  to  ruin 
the  hopes  of  her  husband's  posterity.  In  this  difficulty 
her  mother  bethinks  her  of  the  godly  man  from  Banbury, 
Brother  Zeal-of-t he-land  Busy,  who  is  sure  to  be  equal 
to  the  problem : — 

What  shall  we  do  ?  Call  our  zealous  brother  Busy  hither,  for 
Lis  faithful  fortification  in  this  charge  of  the  adversary.  Child, 
my  dear  child,  you  shall  eat  pig ;  be  comforted,  my  sweet  child. 


The  Masterpieces  113 

At  this  point  the  audience  are  pretty  well  informed 
that  Dame  Purecraft  herself  has  no  insurmountable  ob- 
jection to  pig  in  the  abstract.  But  Win-the-fight  will 
not  ratify  a  bargain  on  these  terms.  Her  longing  is  for 
pig  at  Smithfield  ;  so  she  answers  :  — 

Mrs.  Lit. :  Ay,  but  in  the  Fair,  mother  ! 

Ptire. :  I  mean  in  the  Fair,  if  it  can  be  any  way  made  or  found 
lawful. 

Meanwhile,  Zeal-of-the-land  Busy,  one  of  the  most 
unctuous  creations  of  a  comic  poet's  brain,  has  been 
discovered  in  the  pantry,  comforting  himself  with  a 
glass  of  malmsey  and  a  cub  of  cold  turkey-pie.  The 
pious  man  appears,  wiping  his  lips,  and  is  immediately 
appealed  to  by  the  widow  : — 

O,  brother  Busy  !  your  help  here,  to  edify  and  raise  us  up  in  -a 
scruple ;  my  daughter  Win-the-fight  is  visited  with  a  natural  disease 
of  women,  called  a  longing  to  eat  pig. 

Mr.  Littlewit,  who  has  no  less  longing  for  Smithfield 
than  his  spouse,  here  puts  in  a  word  : — 
Ay,  sir,  a  Bartholomew  pig ;  and  in  the  Fair. 

His  mother-in-law  takes  him  up  : 

And  I  would  be  satisfied  from  you,  religiously-wise,  whether  a 
widow  of  the  sanctified  assembl}-,  or  a  widow's  daughter,  may 
commit  the  act  without  offence  to  the  weaker  sisters. 

Thus  appealed  to,  the  answer  of  the  Eabbi,  delivered 
doubtless  in  a  rich  baritone  snuffle,  is  highly  edifying, 
but  hardly  satisfactory  to  the  persons  concerned.  Zeal- 
of-the-land  has  no  objection  to  the  eating  of  roast 
pig  in  itself.  He  sticks  at  the  place  where  it  must  be 
eaten : — 

Verily,  for  the  disease  of  longing,  it  is  a  disease,  a  carnal  disease, 
or  appetite,  incident  to  women ;  and  as  it  is  carnal  and  incident,  it 

I 


114  Ben  JoNsoN 

is  natural,  very  natural.  Now  pig,  it  is  a  meat,  and  a  meat  that  is 
liOiiiishing  and  may  be  longed  for,  and  so  consequently  eaten ;  it 
may  be  eaten ;  very  exceedingly  well  eaten :  but  in  the  Fair,  and 
as  a  Bartholomew  pig,  it  cannot  be  eaten;  for  the  very  calling  it  a 
Eartholomew  pig,  and  to  eat  it  so,  is  a  spice  of  idolatry,  and  you 
make  the  Fair  no  better  than  one  of  the  high-places.  This,  I  taka 
it,  is  the  state  of  the  question:  a  high-place. 

True  to  lier  name,  Win-the-figlit  persists  in  lier  deter- 
mination ;  and  Dame  Purecraft  is  forced  to  consult 
the  oracle  once  more  for  casuistical  easements  : — 

Good  brother  Zeal-of-the-land,  think  to  make  it  as  lav»ful  as 
you  can. 

This  time,  the  oracle  itself  is  smitten  with  the  savoury 
temptation  of  pig  at  the  Fair.  He  then  replies  with  the 
same  fulsome  reiteration  of  phrases  which  marks  the 
canting  hypocrite  : — 

Surely,  it  may  be  otherwise,  but  it  is  subject  to  construction, 
subject,  and  hath  a  face  of  offence  with  the  weak,  a  great  face,  a 
foul  face  ;  but  that  face  may  have  a  veil  put  over  it,  and  be 
shadowed  as  it  were ;  it  may  be  eaten,  and  in  the  Fair,  I  take  it,  in 
a  booth,  the  tents  of  the  wicked  :  the  place  is  not  much,  not  very 
much,  we  may  be  religious  in  the  midst  of  the  profane,  so  it  be 
eaten  with  a  reformed  mouth,  with  sobriety  and  humbleness  ;  not 
gorged  in  with  gluttony  or  greediness,  there's  the  fear :  for  should 
she  go  there,  as  taking  pride  in  the  place,  or  delight  in  the 
unclean  dressing,  to  feed  the  vanity  of  the  eye,  or  lust  of  the 
palate,  it  were  not  well,  it  were  not  fit,  it  were  abominable,  and  r.ot 
good. 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  convenient  sophistry, 
Brother  Busy  invokes  the  spirit  of  zeal,  and  rhapsodises 
as  follows  : — 

In  the  way  of  comfort  to  the  weak,  I  will  go  and  eat.  I  will  eat 
exceedingly,  and  prophesy.  There  may  be  a  good  use  made  of  it 
too  now  I  think  on't.     By  the  public  eating  of  swine's  flesh,  to 


The.  Masterpieces  i  i  5 

profess  our  hate  and  loathing  of  Judaism,  whereof  tlie  brethren 
stand  taxed.     I  will  therefore  eat,  yea,  I  will  eat  exceedingly. 

It  was  Jonsoii's  invariable  practice  to  introduce  the 
main  personages  of  liis  drama  in  tlie  first  act,  and  to 
set  forth,  the  leading  comic  motive  with  such  clearness 
that  the  future  conduct  of  the  plot  should  involve  no 
difficulties  for  the  understanding.  We  are  therefore 
now  prepared,  upon  the  opening  of  the  second  act,  to 
find  ourselves  among  the  booths  of  Bartholomew  Fair ; 
and  here  we  witness  a  series  of  diverting  incidents  in 
the  expectation  of  soon  returning  to  the  company  of 
our  Puritan  friends.  This  expectation  is  not  frustrated; 
for  in  due  time,  though  we  have  to  wait  for  them  until 
the  first  scene  of  the  third  act.  Dame  Purecraft  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Littlewit,  led  by  Rabbi  Busy,  are  seen 
advancing  with  set  faces  through  the  booths : — 

Busy :  So,  walk  on  in  the  middle  way,  foreright,  turn  neither 
to  the  right  hand  nor  to  the  left ;  let  not  your  eyes  be  drawn  aside 
with  vanity,  nor  your  ears  with  noises. 

The  toy-sellers  and  apple-women  gather  round  them ; 
but  the  pious  man  continues  his  nasal  exhortation  : — 

Look  not  toward  them,  hearken  not ;  the  place  is  Smithfield,  oi 
the  field  of  smiths,  the  grove  of  hobby-horses  and  trinkets;  the 
wares  are  the  wares  of  devils,  and  the  whole  Fair  is  the  shop  of 
Satan.  They  are  hooks  and  baits,  very  baits,  that  are  hung  out  on 
every  side  to  catch  you,  and  to  hold  you  as  it  were  by  the  gills  and 
by  the  nostrils,  as  the  fisher  doth.  Therefore  you  must  not  look 
nor  tm:n  toward  them.  The  heathen  man  could  stop  his  ears  with 
wax  against  the  harlot  of  the  sea;  do  you  the  like  with  your 
fingers  against  the  bells  of  the  beast. 

But  their  object  at  the  Fair  is  to  eat  pig;  and  how 
are  they  to  find  it  if  they  do  not  use  their  eyes  ?     The 


ii6  Ben  JoNsoN 

proctor,  who  is  a  weak  brother,  takes  this  vieWj  and 
stands  stock  still  before  Ursula's  booth  : — 

Lit. :  \_Gazing  at  the  insGription,']      This  is  fine  verily  !     Here 

BE  THE  BEST  PIGS;    AND  SHE  DOES  BOAST    THEM    AS    WELL    AS 

EVER  SHE  DID,  the  pig's  head  says  1 

Pure.:  Son,  were  you  not  warned  of  the  vanity  of  the  eye? 
Have  you  forgot  the  wholesome  admonition  so  soon  ? 

Lit. :  Good  mother,  how  shall  we  find  a  pig,  if  we  do  not  look 
about  for 't  ?  Will  it  run  off  o'  the  spit  into  our  mouths,  think  jou^ 
as  in  Lubber  land,  and  cr}^  wee  wee? 

Busy's  casuistry  is  equal  to  the  occasion.  II0  Jiacl 
warned  his  flock  to  close  their  ears  and  shut  their  eyes  5 
but  another  sense  might  lead  them  no  less  surely  to  tb^ 
object  of  their  quest. 

Bxmj :  No,  but  your  mother,  religiously- wise,  conceiveth  it  may 
offer  itself  by  other  means  to  the  sense,  as  by  way  of  steam,  which 
I  think  it  doth  here  in  this  place, — huh,  huh — yes,  it  doth.  [7/e 
scents  after  it  like  a  Jiound.']  And  it  were  a  sin  of  obstinacy,  great 
obstinacy,  high  and  horrible  obstinacy,  to  decline  or  resist  the 
good  titillation  of  the  famelic  sense,  which  is  the  smell.  Therefore 
be  bold — huh,  huh,  huh — follow  the  scent :  enter  the  tents  of  thq 
unclean,  for  once,  and  satisfy  your  wife's  frailty.  Let  your  frai^ 
wife  be  satisfied ;  your  zealous  mother  and  my  suffering  self  wiU 
also  be  satisfied. 

To  this  admirable  exposition  he  adds  the  further 
casuistical  reflection,  that  'we  scape  so^much  of  the 
other  vanities  by  our  early  entering ' ;  and  Dame  Pure-, 
craft  assents  :  '  It  is  an  edifying  consideration.'  Mrs., 
Littlewit  grumbles :  '  This  is  scurvy,  that  we  must, 
come  to  the  Fair,  and  not  look  on  't.'  However,  tha 
whole  party  enters  Ursula's  booth;  and  the  voice  of  the 
Kabbi  is  heard  within  its  curtains,  sonorously  declaim-, 
ing :  '  A  pig  prepare  presently,  let  a  pig  be  prepared 
to  us/      There  we  leave  him  fpr  ^wjiile  to  the  gratifica-r 


Thji  Masterpieces  117 

tlon  of  his  sanctified  appetite.  The  plot  calls  our  atten- 
tion to  other  persons  of  the  comedy.  These  I  must 
omit,  being  unable  to  set  so  miscellaneous  a  crowd  of 
characters  adequately  before  my  readers,  and  wishing  to 
concentrate  attention  upon  Jonson's  full-length  portrait 
of  the  Puritan  minister. 

When  Busy  has  eaten  to  his  heart's  content,  and 
drunk  no  little  too  it  may  be  guessed,  he  sallies  forth, 
inspired  with  zeal  against  the  profanities  of  the  Fair  : — 

Thou  art  the  seat  of  the  beast,  0  Smithfield,  and  I  will  leave 
thee  I     Idolatry  peepeth  out  on  every  side  of  thee. 

His  eyes  light  upon  a  toyshop,  and  the  toy-man  presses 
'  rattles,  drums,  babies '  on  his  devout  attention  : — 

Peace,  with  thy  apocryphal  wares,  thou  profane  publican ;  thy 
bells,  thy  dragons,  and  thy  Tobie's  dogs.  Thy  hobby-horse  is  an 
idol,  a  very  idol,  a  fierce  and  rank  idol ;  and  thou,  the  Nebuchad- 
nezzar, the  proud  Nebuchadnezzar  of  the  Fair,  that  sett'st  it  up  for 
children  to  fall  down  to  and  worship. 

The  toy-man  thrusts  a  drum  into  his  face  :— 

It  is  the  broken  belly  of  the  beast,  and  thy  bellows  there  are  his 
lungs,  and  these  pipes  are  his  throat,  those  feathers  are  of  his  tail, 
and  thy  rattles  the  gnashing  of  his  teeth. 

Would  he  like  gingerbread  perhaps  ? 

The  provender  that  pricks  him  up.  Hence  with  thy  basket  of 
popery,  thy  nest  of  images,  and  whole  legend  of  ginger-work. 

Dame  Purecraft,  seeing  that  he  is  about  to  fall  upon  the 
gingerbread  basket  and  send  it  flying  in  the  fervour  of 
his  indignation,  attempts  to  calm  him  down  with  '  Good 
brother  Zeal ' ;  but  he  will  hear  no  reason  : — 

Hinder  me  not,  woman  !  I  was  moved  in  spirit  to  be  here  this 
day,  in  this  Fair,  this  wicked  and  foul  Fair ;   and  fitter  may  it  be 


1 1 8  Ben  J  on  son 

called  a  Foul  than  a  Fair ;  to  protest  against  the  abuses  of  it,  the 
foul  abuses  of  it,  in  regard  of  the  afflicted  saints,  that  are  troubled, 
,very  much  troubled,  exceedingly  troubled,  with  the  opening  of  the 
merchandize  of  Babylon  again,  and  the  peeping  of  popery  upon  the 
stalls  here,  here,  in  the  high-places.  See  yon  not  Goldylocks,  the 
purple  strumpet  there,  in  her  yellow  gown  and  green  sleeves  ?  the 
profane  pipes  ?  the  tinkling  timbrels  ?     A  shop  of  relicks  I 

\_Attem/pts  to  seize  the  toys.'] 

Then,  having  lashed  himself  into  a  fury,  he  bears  down 
'  upon  the  gingerbread  : — 

And  this  idolatrous  grove  of  images,  this  flasket  of  idols,  which 
I  will  pull  down  [overthroivs  the  gingerhread  haslief]  in  my  zeal,  and 
glory  to  be  thus  exercised. 

The  ensuing  commotion  brings  a  brace  of  watchmen  on 
the  scene,  who  take  hold  of  Busy,  and  carry  him  off  to 
the  stocks,  saying  they  will  stop  his  noise : — 

Thou  canst  not ;  'tis  a  sanctified  noise  :  1  will  make  a  loud  and 
most  strong  noise,  till  I  have  daunted  the  profane  enemy.  And  for 
this  cause  I  will  thrust  myself  into  the  stocks,  upon  the  pikes  of  the 
land. 

We  next  behold  him  in  the  stocks,  roaring  and  testify- 
ing, but  displaying  withal  that  obstinate  courage  and 
unconcern  for  what  the  world  might  think  which  gave 
force  to  the  Puritans  in  the  succeeding  age.  When  a 
bystander  jeeringly  asks  what  he  is,  he  answers : — 

One  that  rejoiceth  in  his  affliction,  and  sitteth  here  to  prophesy 
the  destruction  of  fairs  and  May-games,  wakes  and  Whitson-ales, 
and  doth  sigh  and  groan  for  the  reformation  of  these  abuses. 

We  may  wonder  whether  Jonson,  when  he  put  these 
words  into  the  mouth  of  Busy,  surmised  the  probability 
of  his  prophecy  being  shortly  realised  in  dismal  fact 
throughout  England.  A  fellow-prisoner,  the  unfortu- 
.nate  justice  of  the  peace,  Adam  Overdo,  quotes  stoical 


The  Masterpieces  119 

phrases  from  Horace  and  Persius  to  keep  his  courage 
up.  The  Rabbi  overhears  him,  and  delivers  a  cutting 
rebuke : — 

Friend,  I  will  leave  to  communicate  my  spirit  with  you,  if  I  hear 
an}^  more  of  those  superstitious  relics,  those  lists  of  Latin,  the  very 
rags  of  Kome,  and  patches  of  Popery. 

With  his  wonted  skill  in  throwing  side  lights  .upDn  all 
points  of  arfavourite  character,  Jonson  here  exhibits  the 
Huritan  dislike  of  culture  and  the  ^ross  ignorance  of 
the  sect.  But  when  Dame  Purecraft  comes  up,  and 
condoles  with  him  on  his  misfortune,  the  valiant  spirit 
of  the  martyr  (as  stout  in  tragic  as  it  here  appears  in 
comic  difficulty)  breaks  forth  : — 

Peace,  religious  sister,  it  is  my  calling ;  comfort  yourself  an 
extraordinary  calling,  and  done  for  my  better  standing,  my  surer 
standing,  hereafter. 

Notwithstanding  this  enthusiasm,  he  is  glad  enough  to 
escape  when  the  stocks  are  opened  by  accident.  His 
Quixotic  zeal  soon  plunges  him  into  other  comical  ad- 
ventures. A  farcical  puppet-show  on  the  pathetic  story 
of  Hero  and  Leander,  which  might  serve  as  an  excellent 
illustration  of  English  mock-heroic  parody,  if  we  had 
space  to  dwell  on  it,  is  being  acted  in  a  booth.  The 
dialogue,  of  the  lowest  description,  is  moving  briskly, 
when  a  sudden  snort  and  trampling  announces  the 
advent  of  the  Rabbi  : — 

Down  with  Dagon  !  down  with  Dagon  I  'tis  I ;  I  will  no  longer 
endure  your  profanations.  I  will  remove  Dagon  there,  I  say,  that 
idol,  that  heathenish  idol,  that  remains,  as  I  may  say,  a  beam,  a  very 
beam — not  a  beam  of  the  sun,  nor  a  beam  of  the  moon,  nor  a  beam 
of  a  balance,  neither  a  house-beam,  nor  a  weaver's  beam,  but  a  beam 
in  the  eye,  in  the  eye  of  the  brethren ;  a  very  great  beam,  an 


120  Ben  JoNsoN 

exceeding  great  beam ;  such  as  are  your  stage-players,  rimers,  and 
morrice-dancers,  who  have  walked  hand  in  hand,  in  contempt  of  the 
brethren  and  the  cause  j  and  been  borne  out  by  instruments  of  no 
mean  countenance. 

His  zeal  overvaults  itself,  and  leaves  him  out  of  breath ; 
whereupon  the  showman  quietly  observes  : — 
Sir,  1  present  nothing  but  what  is  licensed  by  authority. 

This  sets  Busy  off  again  upon  the  word  licence : — 

Busy  :  Thou  art  all  licence,  even  licentiousness  itself,  Shimei. 

Leath :  I  have  the  Master  of  the  Eevels'  hand  for  't,  sir. 

Bus?/  :  The  Master  of  the  Rebels'  hand  thou  hast,  Satan's  I  hold 
thy  peace,  thy  scurrilitj^,  shut  up  thy  mouth,  thy  profession  is  damn- 
able, and  in  pleading  for  it  thou  dost  plead  for  Baal.  I  have  long 
opened  my  mouth  wide,  and  gaped  ;  I  have  gaped  as  the  oyster  for 
the  tide,  after  thy  destruction  :  but  cannot  compass  it  by  suit  or  dis- 
pute ;  so  that  I  look  for  a  bickering,  ere  long,  and  then  a  battle. 

Eventually,  Eabbi  Zeal-of-the-land  is  drawn  into  a 
controversy  upon  theatrical  ethics  with  the  showman, 
which  gives  Jonson  an  opportunity  for  marshalling  the 
arguments  advanced  by  Puritans  against  play-acting. 
His  own  counter-arguments  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of 
Busy's  antagonist,  who  in  the  end  confutes  and  silences 
the  man  of  Banbury. 

Such  is  the  best  portrait  of  a  Puritan  which  remains 
for  us  upon  the  pages  of  our  dramatists.  After  study- 
ing its  powerful  outlines,  we  feel  the  truth  of  Gilford's 
observation :  '  All  this  proves  how  profoundly  Jonson 
had  entered  into  the  views  and  expectations  of  this  tur- 
bulent and  aspiring  race.'  Whether  he  is  right  in 
adding :  '  Had  his  royal  master  understood  them  hall 
so  well,  long  years  of  calamity  and  disgrace  might  have 
been  averted,'  is  open  to  more  doubt.  It  was  not 
Charles'  misconception  of  the   Puritans  which   moved 


The  MASTERpmcES  121 

John  Hampden  and  Pym  to  their  resistance  of  royal 
tyranny.  Yet  the  fact  remains  that  the  playwright, 
while  caricaturing  the  fanatics  who  subsequently  formed 
the  Rump  Parliament,  panted  them  in  their  day  of 
comparative  obscurity  just  as  they  afterwards  displayed 
themselves  in  the  day  of  their  triumph. 


122  Ben  JoNsoN 


CHAPTER  V. 

MASQUES   AT   COURT   AND   LYllICS. 

The  Masque  in  England  was  a  dramatic  species,  occupy- 
ing a  middle  place  between  the  Pageant  and  the  Play.^ 
It  combined  dancing  and  music  with  lyric  poetry  and 
declamation,  and  was  distinguished  above  all  things  by 
magnificence  of  scenery.  The  persons  who  performed 
a  masque  had  only  to  be  noble  in  appearance,  richly 
dressed,  and  dignified  in  movement.  Little  demand 
was  made  upon  their  histrionic  talent.  They  were  but 
animated  puppets  in  the  hands  of  artists  who  devised 
the  piece :  the  poet  who  chose  the  subject  and  wrote 
the  book  of  words ;  the  mechanist,  who  prepared  the 
architectural  surroundings,  shifted  the  scenes,  and 
planned  the  complicated  engines  requisite  for  bringing 
cars  upon  the  stage  or  lowering  a  goddess  from  the 
heavens  ;  the  scene-painter  ;  the  milliner  ;  the  leader  of 
the  band ;  the  teacher  of  the  ballet.  The  performers 
played  their  parts  sufficiently,  provided  their  costumes 
were  splendid  and  their  carriage  stately.     Therefore  the 

'  For  further  details  concerning  the  masque,  I  may  refer  to 
chapter  ix.  of  my  Shalispere^s  Predecessors.  I  must  also  point 
out  that  I  have  drawn  largely  on  that  chapter,  and  have  frequently 
borrowed  from  it  textually  in  the  composition  of  this  sketch.  I 
found  it  impossible  to  cast  what  I  had  to  say  upon  the  subject  in 
quite  a  fresh  form. 


Masques  at  Court  and  Lyrics  123 

masque  became  a  favourite  amusement  with  wealthy  ama- 
teurs and  courtiers  aiming  at  effect.  Since  it  implied 
a  large  expenditure  on  dresses,  scenery,  candlelight,  and 
music,  it  was  an  indulgence  which  only  the  rich  could 
afford.  We  are  thus  prepared  to  understand  why  the 
masque  was  a  special  branch  of  Court-parade,  in  which 
royal  personages  and  the  queens  of  fashion  trod  the 
dais  of  Greenwich  or  Whitehall  on  festival  occasions. 
The  principal  actors  posed  upon  this  private  stage  as 
Olympian  deities  or  personifications  of  the  Virtues, 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  ballet-dancers,  singers,  lutists, 
and  buffoons. 

The  masque  was  imported  into  England  from  Italy. 
TVe  first  hear  of  it  in  the  year  1512-13,  when 
Henry  VIII.  and  eleven  of  his  nobles  appeared  '  dis- 
guised '  after  this  new  fashion.  During  the  reigns  of 
the  Tudors  it  continued  to  be  a  comparatively  simple 
pageant ;  nor  do  we  possess  literary  records  of  masques 
composed  by  eminent  writers  in  this  period.  The  ac- 
cession of  James  I.  marked  an  epoch  in  its  development. 
This  king  and  his  son  were  both  of  them  partial  to  such 
entertainments,  and  willing  to  spend. freely  on  them. 
The  average  cost  of  a  masque  at  Court  may  be  reckoned 
at  about  1,400L,  which,  considering  the  value  of  money 
at  that  time,  represents  a  large  sum.  Great  noble- 
men, corporations,  and  the  City  of  London,  not  un- 
frequently  indulged  their  sovereign's  taste  by  present- 
ing still  more  costly  entertainments.  On  one  occasion, 
when  the  Inns  of  Court  displayed  Shirley's  '  Triumph 
-of  Peace,'  their  total  expenditure  is  said  to  have  been 
-2O,O00L 

It  was  part  of  the  poet's  duty  to  prepare  for  publi- 


124       ^  Ben  JomoM 

cation  a  detailed  account  of  tlie  show ;  describing  tli6 
scenes,  costumes,  and  dances ;  introducing  the  libretto 
he  had  written  for  the  actors,  and  paying  compliments 
to  his  collaborators.  The  names  of  the  performers,  if 
they  were  royal  or  noble,  appeared  in  their  proper 
placQs ;  and  the  little  book  was  prized  as  a  souvenir  by 
those  who  had  assisted  at  so  august  a  pageant.  To  this 
custom  of  printing  the  description  of  Court  masques 
we  owe  the  preservation  of  more  than  thirty  pieces  by 
Ben  Jonson,  not  to  mention  those  of  other  distinguished 
poets  among  his  contemporaries. 

Jonson  threw  his  whole  spirit  into  the  work.  His 
masques  iSre  not  only  infinitely  varied,  witty,  tasteful, 
and  ingeriTous,  but  vast  erudition  is  exhibited  in  the 
notes  with  which  he  has  enriched  themTj  Conscious  of 
the  sterling  stuff  of  these  compositions,  he  chafed  at 
the  precedence  in  popular  esteem  which  was  naturally 
given  to  the  architect  on  such  occasions.  '  He  thought 
that  the  poet,  whose  invention  was  the  soul  of  such 
splendid  trifles,  deserved  the  lion's  share  of  fame.  And 
certainly,  were  it  not  for  Jonson's  lyrics,  we  should 
pay  them  slight  attention  now.  Those  far  more  superb 
pageants  of  Florence  and  of  Venice,  because  they  lacked 
a  sacred  bard,  are  forgotten.  While,  therefore,  he  was 
careful  to  assign  what  he  considered  their  due  share  of 
credit  to  his  several  collaborators,  he  always  reserved 
for  himself  the  chief  honours  of  the  piece.  His  lofty 
introduction  to  the  '  Hymenaei '  opens  thus  :  '  It  is  a 
noble  and  just  advantage  that  the  things  subjected  to 
understanding  have  of  those  which  are  objected  to  sense ; 
that  the  one  sort  are  but  momentary,  and  merely  taking ; 
the  other  impressing  and  lasting ;  else  the  glory  of  tnese 


Masques  at  Court  and  Lyrics  125 

solemnities  had  perished  like  a  blaze,  and  gone  out,  in 
the  beholders'  eyes.  So  short-lived  are  the  bodies  of  all 
things,  in  comparison  of  their  souls.' 

Inigo  Jones,  the  disciple  of  Palladio  and  builder  of 
Whitehall,  was  the  architect  who  provided  the  mechanism 
needed  for  bodying  forth  the  poet's  fancy  to  the  eye. 
He  was  no  less  imperious  in  self-esteem  than  Jonson, 
and  by  no  means  relished  this  assignment  of  the  merely 
transient  portion  of  the  masques  to  him.  Other  authors, 
Daniel  and  Chapman,  had  paid  him  better  respect, 
placed  his  name  first  upon  the  title-page,  and  acknow- 
ledged in  their  prefaces  that  his  art  excelled  the  poet's 
in  importance.  Jonson  indeed  was  right.  He  might 
well  expect  the  suffrage  of  posterity,  when  all  the 
torches  of  Whitehall  should  be  extinguished,  the  royal 
actors  dead  and  buried,  the  groves  and  cars  and  temples 
of  the  mechanician  turned  to  dust.  But  he  had  better 
not  have  proclaimed  this  so  haughtily,  for  he  made  a 
deadly  enemy.  Though  they  worked  together  for  many 
years,  the  discord  between  these  two  irascible  artists 
grew  ever  more  intense.  We  shall  see  that  in  the 
darkest  days  of  Jonson's  life,  when  he  stood  most  in 
need  of  friendship  and  goodwill,  Jones  contrived  to  do 
him  a  bad  turn  at  Court. 

The  masque,  as  I  have  said,  was  generally  presented 
by  royal  or  noble  personages.  On  their  performances 
the  architect  lavished  his  costliest  inventions.  But 
this  magnificence  required  a  foil.  An  Antimasque  was 
consequently  furnished;  and  for  this,  some  grotesque 
or  comic  motive  had  to  be  selected.  Actors  from  the 
public  theatres  were  hired  to  play  the  antimasque. 
We  accordingly  find  that  while  the  masque  assumes 


x/ 


126  Ben  JoNsoN 

the  form  of  a  triumph  or  ballet,  the  antimasque  is 
more  strictly  dramatic.  In  the  antimasque,  Hecate 
led  the  revels  of  witches  round  her  cauldron.  In  the 
masque,  queens  attended  Anne  of  Denmark  on  chariots 
of  gold  and  jewels;  lutes  and  viols  sounded;  Prince 
Henry  and  Duke  Charles  stepped  the  high  measures  of 
the  galliard.  To  combine  the  contrasted  motives  of  the 
masque  and  antimasque  into  one  coherent  scheme  was 
the  poet's  pride ;  and  it  is  just  here  that  Jonson  showed 
his  mastery.  It  may  be  parenthetically  noticed  that  the 
antithesis  which  I  have  indicated  survives  in  the  Italian 
hallo  and  the  English  pantomime  of  the  present  day. 

"We  can  now  turn  to  the  consideration  of  Ben 
Jonson's  masques  in  detail.  Their  very  names  reveal 
their  strangeness  and'variety.  There  is  a  Masque  of 
Blackness,  answered  by  a  Masque  of  Beauty;  a  Welsh 
Masque,  and  an  Irish  Masque  ;  a  Masque  of  Queens, 
and  a  Masque  of  Owls  ;  a  Masque  of  Christmas,  and  a 
Masque  of  Lethe ;  a  Masque  of  Augurs  and  a  Masque  of 
Time.  ir^TFone  moment  the  poet's  fancy  brings  back  the 
Golden*^e ;  at  another  explores  the  Fortunate  Isles  or 
the  world  discovered  in  the  moon ;  now  camps  with 
gipsies  on  the  heath,  now  sports  with  satyrs  and  shep- 
herds, now  leads  the  dances  of  the  fairies,  and  now  dons 
the  pomp  and  panoply  of  war.^ 

In  the  perusal,  strippecTof  their  ^apparelling,'  as 
Jonson  styled  the  apparatus  of  the  scene,  these  compo- 
sitions make  severe  demands  on  the  imagination.  It 
is,  however,  possible  to  read  them  still  with  pleasure ; 
especially  if  the  student  brings  a  scholar's  memoiy  to 
the  task.  He  will  wonder  at  the  fulness  and  extent  of 
learning jemployed  on  these  fantastic  toys,  no  less  than 


Masques  at  Court  and  Lyrics  127 

at  the  poet's  spriglitliness  beneath  that  ponderous  load. 
Jonson's  faculty  for  alchemising  erudition  into,  poetry  ^ 
is  admirably  displayed  in  the  Antimasque  of  Witches 
to  the  Masque  of  Queens.  ^  Macbeth '  suggested  the 
motive,  and  classical  literature  supplied  the  details. 
But  the  motive  is  treated  in  so  masterly  a  style,  and  the 
details  are  applied  with  such  artistic  freedom,  that  we 
rise  from  the  perusal  of  those  wild  incantation  scenes  - 
with  a  sense  of  the  author's  command  of  weird  and 
ghastly  imagery.  In  like  manner  the  Latin  lore  em- 
ployed in  the  hymeneal  processions  of  the  Masque  of 
Hymen  and  in  the  sacerdotal  pomp  of  the  Masque  of 
Augurs  has  been  so  well  assimilated  that  we  might  fancy 
ourselves  to  be  gazing  on  some  triumph  like  that  of 
Julius  Caesar  by  Mantegna  at  Hampton  Court.  Greek 
idyllic  verse  is  laid  under  contribution  for  '  The  Hue  and 
Cry  after  Cupid ; '  the  Attic  comedians  suggest  scenes 
in  ^  Neptune's  Triumph.' 

Jonsonwas  not  unconscious  that  his  masques  might 
prove  somewhat  tedious  to  the  general  public.  In  the 
introduction  to  his  ^  Hymenaei '  he  observes :  '  And 
howsoever  some  may  squeamishly  cry  out  that  all  en- 
deavour of  learning  and  sharpness  in  these  transitory 
devices,  especially  where  it  steps  beyond  their  little  or 
(let  me  not  wrong  them)  no  brain  at  all,  is  superfluous ; 
I  am  contented  these  fastidious  stomachs  should  leave 
my  full  tables,  and  enjoy  at  home  their  clean  empty 
trenchers,  fittest  for  such  airy  tastes ;  where  perhaps  a 
few  Italian  herbs,  picked  up  and  mad^  into  a  sallad, 
may  find  sweeter  acceptance  than  all  the  most  nourish- 
ing and  sound  meats  of  the  world.'  But  no  one  with  a 
true  literary  sense  will  fail  to  be  rewarded  by  a  cursory 


128  .       Ben  JoNsoN 

perusal  of  those  lyrics,  whiclij  like  their  author's  prose, 
so  often  remind  us  of  Milton's  style. 

It  is  not  very  easy  to  detach  representative  passages 
from  Jonson's  masques.  The  opening  of  the  piece  he 
wrote  to  celebi'ate  the  nuptials  of  Lord  Haddington  and_ 
Lady  Elizabeth  Ratcliffe  may,  however,  be  chosen  for 
'  V/'  its  delicate  and  sprightly  fancy.  Yenus  has  come  down 
from  heaven,  attended  by  the  Graces,  in  search  of  her 
runaway  boy  Oupid.  None  knows  where  the  wanton 
little  god  is  hidden.  His  mother  turns  to  the  ladies  of 
the  Court  assembled  in  the  hall  before  her.  Perhaps 
the  truant  is  hidden  in  their  laps  or  nestling  in  their 
bosoms.  She  bids  the  Graces  cry  him.  This  they  do 
in  nine  stanzas,  each  singing  in  turn. 

X/^  Beauties,  have  ye  seen  this  toy, 

^^  .    Called  Love,  a  little  boy, 

Almost  naked,  wanton,  blind  ; 
Cruel  now,  and  then  as  kind  ? 
If  he  be  amongst  ye,  say  I 
He  is  Venus'  runaway. 

So  the  one  voice   sings;  and  a  second   takes  up  the 
melody : — 

He  hath  marks  about  him  plenty  : 
You  shall  know  him  among  twenty. 
All  his  body  is  a  fire, 
And  his  breath  a  flame  entire, 
That  being  shot  like  lightning'  in, 
Wounds  the  heart  but  not  the  skin. 

A  third  chimes  in : — 

Trust  him  not ;  his  words,  though  sweet, 

Seldom  with  his  heart  do  meet. 

All  his  practice  is  deceit ; 

Every  gift  it  is  a  bait ; 

Not  a  kiss  but  poison  bears  ; 

And  most  treason  in  his  tears, 


Masques  at  Court  and  Lyrics       [  129 

This  entertainment  fclosed  with  an  epithalamium,  in 
skilfully  constructed  and  sonorous  stanzas,  which,  how- 
ever, fall  short  of  Spenser's  sublimity  and  Herrick's 
rapture  upon  similar  occasions. 

Turning  the  leaves  of  these  old  libretti,  we  not  un- 
frequently  light  on  verses  of  great  purity  and  sweetness. 
Here  is  a  stanza  from  '  The  Fortunate  Isles ' :  — 
The  winds  are  sweet,  and  gently  blow  ; 
But  Zephyrus  no  breath  they  know, 
The  father  of  the  flowers : 
By  him  the  virgin  violets  live, 
And  every  plant  doth  odours  give 

As  fresh  as  are  the  hours.     J 

Here  again  is  one  from  *  Pan's  Anniversary ' : — 
Drop,  drop  your  violets  I     Change  your  hues, 
Now  red,  now  pale,  as  lovers  use  I 
And  in  your  death  go  out  as  well 
As  when  you  lived,  unto  the  smeU  I 
That  from  your  odour,  all  may  say  : 
This  is  the  shepherd's  holiday  ! 

In  the  ^  Masque  of  Beauty '  a  graver  note  is  sounded : — 
So  Beauty  on  the  waters  stood. 
When  Love  had  severed  earth  from  flood  I 
So  when  he  parted  air  from  fire 
Ho  did  with  concord  all  inspire  I 
And  then  a  motion  he  them  taught. 
That  elder  than  himself  was  thought ; 
Which  thought  was,  yet,  the  child  of  earth. 
For  Love  is  older  than  his  birth. 

It  will  be  noticed  in  these  quotations  that  Jonson's 
lyric  style  is  not  exactly  what  we  call  Elizabethan — 
Shakespeare  and  Fletcher  being  uppermost  in  our  minds 
when  we  use  that  phrase.  It  rather  suggests  the 
manner  of  more  recent  poets — of  Milton,  of  Dryden, 
^ven  of  Wordsworth. 


'^ 


(l 

L 

130  Ben  JoNSON 

Some  of  Jonson's  masques  have  a  histoncal  inter^^ 
which  should  not  be  neglected.  For  the  festival  of 
Henry's  inauguration  as  Prince  of  Wales^  he  composed 
an  entertainment  on  the  past  glories  of  Plantagenets 
and  Tudors,  summoning  the  heroes  of  the  Crusades,  of 
Cressy,  of  Agincourt,  and  of  the  Armada,  to  be  present 
at  the  reception  of  this  young  knight  into  chivalry. 
Henry  proved  himself  not  unworthy  of  the  Laureate's 
compliments.  Upon  the  morrow  of  the  masque  he 
held  the  lists  together  with  his  chosen  champions 
against  an  equal  number  of  assailants.  It  was  reckoned 
that  he  gave  and  took  thirty-two  pushes  of  the  pike, 
and  some  three  hundred  and  sixty  sword-strokes  in  that 
tourney.  On  the  evening  following  the  barriers,  as  they 
then  were  called,  the  Prince  appeared  in  the  character 
of  Oberon  among  his  court  of  fairies.  They  danced  until 
the  night  was  spent,  when  Phosphor,  rising,  bade  them 
haste  to  bed :  — 

To  rest,  to  rest !     The  herald  of  the  day. 
Bright  Phosphorus,  commands  you  hence.    Away  I 
The  moon  is  pale  and  spent ;  and  winged  night 
Makes  headlong  haste  to  fly  the  morning's  sight, 
Who  now  is  rising  from  her  blushing  wars, 
And  with  her  rosy  hand  puts  back  the  stars : 
Of  which  myself  the  last,  her  harbinger, 
But  stay  to  warn  you,  that  you  not  defer 
Your  parting  longer  !     Then  do  I  give  way. 
As  Night  hath  done,  and  so  must  you,  to  Day. 

Little  did  poet  and  Court  then  dream  that  this  Prince 
of  Wales,  the  hope  and  darling  of  the  nation,  should  so 
soon,  like  young  Marcellus,  be  taken  from  them  in  his 
prime  of  manhood. 

And  the  boy-prince  Charles,  then  Duke  of  York, 
who  danced  among  the  fairies  in  his  brother's  train, 


Masques  at  Court  and  Lyrics         131 

did  no   seer   discern  the  even   darker   mist   of  doom 

wreathed    round     his    forehead?       Those     Whitehall 

masques   were   followed   by  a  very   different   kind   of 

pageant,  when  he  stepped  forth  to  the  scaffold  from 

the  Banqueting  Hall  in  1649. 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene, 

But  with  his  keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did  try ; 
Nor  called  the  gods,  with  vulgar  spite, 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right ; 

But  bowed  his  comely  head 

Down  as  upon  a  bed. 

Truly  a  sad  fate  was  reserved  for  many  of  those  royal 
and  noble  actors  in  the  New  Year  and  Shrovetide  revels 
of  King  James's  Court : — for  the  luckless  Lady  Arabella 
Stuart,  innocent  victim  of  unhappy  love  and  political 
jealousy,  who  died  raving  mad,  a  prisoner  in  the  Tower, 
in  1615 — for  Lady  Frances  Howard,  wedded  in  her 
fourteenth  year  to  the  young  Earl  of  Essex,  of  whom 
Jonson  sang  in  his  marriage  hymns  : — 

And  wildest  Cupid  waking  hovers 
With  adoration  'twixt  the  lovers. 

She  lived  to  seek  a  disgraceful  divorce,  to  make  an 
infamous  second  marriage,  to  be  tried  for  Overbury's 
murder,  and  to  end  her  days  in  obloquy.  Her  boy- 
bridegroom  was  destined  to  lead  the  armies  of  the  Par- 
liament against  his  king,  and  to  sink  at  last  eclipsed  by 
Cromwell's  greatness. 

With  the  advance  of  years,  the  tragic  irony  of  these 
masques  at  Court  deepens.  The  last  great  entertain- 
ment of  this  kind,  of  which  we  possess  detailed  informa- 
tion, was  presented  by  Charles  and  Henrietta  Maria  at 


132  Ben  JoNSON 

Sbrovetifle  in  1640.  The  usual  sums  of  money  were  ex- 
pended,  and  we  have  the  right  to  assume  that  the  pageant 
lacked  none  of  its  customary  splendour.  The  hall,  as  usual, 
was  crowded  with  stately  men  and  charming  women,  ex- 
changing compliments  beneath  the  torches,  dancing  their 
brawls  and  galliards,  as  though  there  were  no  Hampden, 
Pym,  and  Cromwell  in  existence.  Those  brilliant  and 
bejewelled  cavaliers,  innocent  as  yet  of  civil  strife,  un- 
stained with  fratricidal  slaughter,  were  soon  indeed  to 
part,  with  anger  in  their  breasts,  and  everlasting  fare- 
well on  their  lips,  for  adverse  camps.  While  we  gaze 
in  fancy  on  them  and  the  ladies  at  their  side,  that  voice 
which  De  Quincey  heard  in  vision  thrills  our  ears : 
^  These  are  English  ladies  from  the  unhappy  times  of 
Charles  I.  These  are  the  wives  and  daughters  of  those 
who  met  in  peace,  and  sat  at  the  same  tables,  and  were 
allied  by  marriage  or  by  blood ;  and  yet,  after  a  certain 
day  in  August,  1642, .never  smiled  upon  each  other 
again,  nor  met  but  on  the  field  of  battle ;  and  at  Mars- 
ton  Moor,  at  Newbury,  or  at  Naseby,  cut  asunder  all 
ties  of  love  by  the  cruel  sabre,  and  washed  away  in 
blood  the  memory  of  ancient  friendship.' 

The  transition  from  Jonson's  comedies  and  masques  to 
his  lyrics  and  occasional  pieces  can  easily  be  made.  The 
plays  yield  a  sufficient  number  of  songs.  The  collections 
of  minor  poems,  published  by  him  under  the  titles  of '  The 
Eorest^' ' Under woodsL^nd  'Epigrams,' furnish  abundant 
matter  for  investigation.  Only  a  few  of  these  scattered 
compositions  are  generally  known.  Among  them,  one 
is  on  everybody's  lips ;  for  its  rarely  felicitous  language 
has  been  married  to  a  beautiful  old  melody.  '  Drink 
to  me  only  with  thine  eyes '  was  a  favourite  of  its  author, 


Masques  at  Court  and  Lyrics  133 

if  we  may  trust  Drummond.     And  yet  it  so  nappens 
that    this    airy   and    apparently    spontaneous    effusion 
illustrates  what  his  detractors  meant  when  they  accused  ( 
Jonson  of  '  filching  by  translation/  and  lacking  '  fire  { 
not  kindled  heretofore  by  others'  pains.'     The  song,  in  1 
truthj   is  almost  literally  transmuted  into  rhyme  and 
metre  from  scattered  phrases  in  the  prose  of  a  Greek 
sophist.^     Philostratiis,  to  cite  one  passage,  wrote  a  little 
epistle,   or  hillet-doux,  to  accompany  a   gift  of   roses. 
Eendered  into  English  word  for  word,  the  composition 
runs  thus :    '  I  have  sent  thee  a  wreath  of  roses,  not 
honouring  thee  (though  this  also),  but  rather  giving  to 
the  roses  themselves  this  favour,  that  they  should  not 
wither/     In  Jonson's  verse  the  paragraph  becomes : — 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 

In  another  passage  Philostratus  had  written :  '  If  you 
will  do  your  friend  a  favour,  send  back  what  remains 
of  the  flowers,  no  longer  breathing  of  roses  onl}^,  but  of 
yourself  also.'  The  alchemy  of  Jonson's  fancy  touches 
this  conceit  to  gold  : — 

But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me  : 
Since  when  it  grows  and  smells,  I  sv/ear, 

Not  of  itself  but  thee. 

In  thi^  act  of  lyric  transmutation  something  has  indeed 
been  lost.  There  is  a  delicate  shade  of  meaning  in  the 
original  which  w^e  miss    when   the   poet   concentrates 

'  I  may  refer  those  who  are  curious  in  such  matters  to  a  letter 
written  by  me  to  the  Academy,  December  6,  1884. 


N" 


1 34  Ben  Jonson 

attention  on  the  wreath,  and  not  on  the  roses  them- 
selves. The  repetition  of  it  is  less  suggestive  than  that 
of  iliem  would  have  been.  But  to  dwell  upon  this  point 
'were  ungrateful;  for  the  fact  remains  that  Jonson, 
holding  the  Love-Letters  of  Philostratus  in  free  solu- 
tion in  his  memory,  poured  such  fragments  forth  as 
suited  the  inspiration  of  a  genial  moment  into  the 
lastic  mould  of  one  perfectly  cadenced  stanza.  His 
friend,  T.  Carew,  might  well  console  him  for  the  accusa- 
tion of  filching  by  translation,  when,  looking  at  work 
like  this,  he  wrote  : — 

Nor  think  it  theft  if  the  rich  spoils,  so  torn 
From  conquered  authors,  be  as  trophies  worn. 

Another  felicitous  translation,  this  time  from  the  Latin 
verses  of  a  French  humanist,  Jean  Bonnefons,  has 
also  found  a  permanent  place  in  English  anthologies. 
'  Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  dressed,'  was  the  model  for 
several  of  Herrick's  terse  and  highly  polished  pieces.^ 
Indeed,  it  may  be  said  to  have  originated  a  species  of 
lyrical  composition  unknown  in  literature  before  the 
age  of  Jonson,  or  but  faintly  indicated  in  Lyly's  songs, 
which  found  much  favour  with  writers  of  the  seven- 
y|teenth  century.  He  was  not  always  so  happy.  What 
his..geniusjnthis  kind  seems_to_have  required  was  an 
original,  like  the  prose  of  Philostratus  or  the  elegiacs  of 
Bonnefons,  which  should  suggesLf^ncies  and  stimulate 
invention^    Coming   into    competition  with  a  Hawless 

\ masterpiece  of  poetry,  he  mistook  his  powers,  and  too 
often  debased  gold  into  inferior  metal.  This  I  feel  to 
be  the  case  with  the  free  version  of  '  Vivamus,  mea 

*  It  occurs  in  The  Silent  Woman, 


Masques  at  Court  and  Lyrics  135 

Lesbia/  part  of  which  occurs  in  '  Volpone  '  and  the  rest 
in  'The  Forest.'  Still,  some  excellent  touches  may 
even  here  be  pointed  out.  For  the  incomparable  lines 
of  Catullus : — 

Soles  occidere  et  redire  possunt ; 

Nobis  cum  semel  occidit  brevis  lux, 

Nox  est  perpetua  una  dormienda  : 

Jonson  has  found  these  very  passable  equivalents : — 

Suns  that  set  may  rise  again  ; 
But  if  once  we  lose  this  light, 
'Tis  with  us  perpetual  night. 

The  enumeration  of  the  kisses  leads  him  away  into  a 
pretty  ad  libitum  improvisation  : — 

Add  a  thousand  and  so  more ; 

Till  you  equal  with  the  store 

All  the  grass  that  Kumney  yields, 

Or  the  sands  in  Chelsea  fields, 

Or  the  drops  in  silver  Thames, 

Or  the  stars  that  gild  his  streams 

In  the  silent  summer  nights 

When  youths  ply  their  stol'n  delights; 

That  the  curious  may  not  know 

How  to  tell  them  as  they  flow, 

And  the  envious,  when  they  find  ^ 

What  their  number  is,  be  pined. 

Passing  to  songs  which  are  not  translations,  three 
of  considerable  beauty  can  be  cited  from  '  Cynthia's 
Bevels.'  One  of  these,  addressed  to  the  goddess  of  the 
night,  '  Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair,'  is  so 
popular  that  it  calls  for  no  further  notice  here.  Another, 
named  '  The  Kiss,'  should  be  transcribed,  seeing  that 
it  is  not  so  well  known.  In  occasional  felicity  of  terse 
phrasing,  as  also  in  a  certain  imperfection  of  rhyme  and 


'v. 


1 36  Ben  Jonso]^  9jt^  ^trv^  Vv  MM^ 

rliytlim,  it  illustrates  Jonsoni qualities  and  shortcomings 
as  a  song- writer  : — 

0,  that  joy  so  soon  should  waste  1 

Or  so  sweet  a  bliss 

As  a  kiss 
Might  not  for  ever  last  1 
So  sugared,  so  melting,  so  soft,  so  delicious  1 
The  dew  that  lies  on  roses 
When  the  dawn  herself  discloses. 

Is  not  so  precious. 
O  rather  than  I  would  it  smother. 
Were  I  to  taste  such  another, 

It  should  be  mj-  wishing 

That  I  might  die  with  kissing. 

Had  the  ore  been  smelted,  and  the  metal  fused  through- 
out these  lines  into  the  liquid  purity  of : — 

The  dew  that  lies  on  roses 
\^  When  the  dawn  herself  discloses : 

we  should  in  this  lyric  have  possessed  a  jewel.     M^re 

excellent  in  workmanship,  yet  demanding  part-song  or 

madrigal  music  to  bring  out  its  beauty,  is  Echo's  lament 

for  Narcissus  in  the  same  play  : — 

Slow,  slow,  fresh  fount,  keep  time  with  my  salt  tears : 

Yet  slower,  yet ;  0  faintty,  gentle  springs  : 
List  to  the  l^eavy  part  the  music  bears, 

Woe  weeps  6ut  her  division  when  she  sings. 
Droop  herbs  and  flowers, 
Fall  grief  in  showers, 
Our  beauties  are  not  ours  j 
O,  I  could  still. 
Like  melting  snow  upon  some  craggy  hill, 

Drop,  drop,  drop,  drop, 
Since  nature's  pride  is  now  a  withered  daffodil. 

In  longer  lyric   flights  Jonson   seldom   sustained   his 
inspiration  at  a  high  level.  I   He  fell  short  of  Spenser's 


v- 


Masques  At  Court  and  Lyrics         is;* 

heavenly  music  and  Herrick's  Baccliic  ecstasy.  Yet 
his  odes  and  nuiptial  hymns  contain  passages  of  fine 
_^nomic  poetry.  {.)ne  stanza  from  tne  '  Ucle  to  tfie 
Immortal  Memory  of  that  Noble  Pair,  Sir  Lucius  Gary 
(Lord  Falkland)  and  Sir  Henry  Morison/  is  familiar  to 
readers  of  the  '  Glplden  Treasury/  where  it  appears  as  a 
separate  piece,  beginning  ^  It  is  not  growing  like  a 
..tree.'  I  will  select  another  from  the  epithalamium  for 
Master  Jerome  Weston  and  the  Lady  Frances  Stuart : — 

The  ignoble  never  lived ;  they  were  awhile 
Like  swine  or  other  cattle  here  on  earth : 
Their  names  are  not  recorded  on  the  file 

Of  life,  that  fall  so ;  Christians  know  their  birth 
Alone ;  and  such  a  race 

We  pray  may  grace  ^  / 

Your  fruitful  spreading  vine,  q-H^^^uil^-'*'^^  ♦ 

But  dare  not  ask  our  wish  in  language  fescennme. 

Here,  as  so  often  happens,  Jonson  starts  with  lines  that 
have  the  clarion-thrill  of  true  poetic  utterance.  But 
his  wings  droop,  and  while  the  thought  is  maintained 
upon  a  vigorous  and  manly  note,  he  allows  the_ expres- 
sion to  sink  into  commonplace  or  quaintness. 

Of  elegies  and  memorial  verses  we  possess  abun- 
dance from  the  pen  of  Jonson.  The  epitaph  on  the 
Countess  of  Pembroke,  '  Underneath  this  sable  hearse/ 
is  known  by  heart  and  lives  upon  the  lips  of  everybody. 
There  is  nothing  of  this  kind  in  the  collection  of  his 
poems  to  rival  it.  Yet  thoughts  of  sterling  value 
and  unexpected  sweetnesses  of  phrase  might  be  culled 
from  these  compositions;  as,  for  example,  a  melodious 
couplet  in  the  threnody  on  Lady  Venetia  Digby  : — 

Dare  I,  profane,  so  irreligious  be, 

To  greet  or  grieve  her  soft  euthanasy  !  . 


13^  Ben  JoNsoN 

I  would,  however,  prefer  to  transcribe  one  little  piece 
of  an  earlier  date,  which  displays  Jonson  in  a  vgry^ 
amiable  light.  He  wrote  the  lines  in  question  upon 
the  occasion  of  Salathiel  Pavy's  death,  a  Child  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  Chapel,  who  had  acted  parts  in  his  '  Cyn- 
thia's Kevels '  and  '  The  Poetaster.'  It  will  be  noticed 
that,  though  the  boy  was  only  just  in  his  fourteenth 
year,  the  poet  praises  him  for  special  skill  in  representing 
old  men  on  the  stage  : — 

Weep  with  me  all  you  that  read 

This  little  story ; 
And  know,  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed, 

Death's  self  is  sorry. 
*Twas  a  child  that  so  did  thrive 

In  grace  and  feature 
As  heaven  and  nature  seemed  to  strive 

Which  owned  the  creature. 
Years  he  numbered  scarce  thirteen 

When  fates  turned  cruel : 
Yet  three  filled  zodiacs  had  he  been 

The  stage's  jewel ; 
And  did  act,  what  now  we  moan, 

Old  men  so  duly ; 
As,  sooth,  the  Parcae  thought  him  one, 

He  played  so  truly. 
So,  by  error,  to  his  fate 

They  all  consented ; 
But,  viewing  him  since,  alas,  too  late, 

They  have  repented, 
And  have  sought  to  give  new  birth. 

In  baths  to  steep  him ; 
But,  being  much  too  good  for  earth. 

Heaven  vows  to  keep  him. 

While  dwelling  on  the  graver  qualities  of  Jonson's 
lyric  muse,  I  wish  to  call  attention  to  a  poem  of  eight 
stanzas,  detached  from  its  context  and  printed  by  Gifford 


Masques  at  Court  and  Lyrics  139 

in  tlie  [  Underwoods.'  ^    Though  imperfect  in  execution, 

this  delicate  and   subtle  address  to  some  person,  too 

much  beloved  to  be  called  merely  friend,  and  yet  not 

passionately  sought,  discovers  a  strain  of  poetic  feeling 

more   nearly  allied  to  that  of  Lovelace   than  to  any 

other  writer's.     If  it  be  really  Jonson's,  it  deserves  to 

be  here,  in  part  at  least,  presented.     I  therefore  give 

four  verses : — 

I  neither  love,  nor  yet  am  free ; 

For  though  the  flame  I  find 
Be  not  intense  in  the  degree, 

'Tis  of  the  purest  kind. 

It  little  wants  of  love  but  pain ; 

Your  beauty  takes  my  sense ; 
And  lest  you  should  that  price  disdain, 

My  thoughts  too  feel  the  influence. 

'Tis  not  a  passion's  first  access. 

Ready  to  multiply ; 
But  like  love's  calmest  state  it  is 

Possessed  with  victory. 

It  is  like  love  to  truth  reduced, 

All  the  false  values  gone, 
Which  were  created  and  induced 

By  fond  imagination. 

The  violation  of  metre  in  the  second  and  fourth  of  these 
stanzas  raises  a  doubt  whether  we  possess  the  correct 
text,  or  whether  indeed  the  thing  be  Jonson's. 

I  have  left  to  the  last  a  collection  of  complimentary 
verses  entitled  ^  A  Celebration  of  Charis  in  Ten  Lyric 
Pieces.'     When  they  were  composed  is  doubtful.     The 

*  Gifford  styles  it  *  An  Elegy,'  and  prints  it  as  No.  XL.  of  Under- 
woods, remarking  that  he  had  taken  it  from  the  last  pages  of  the 
folio  of  1641,  where  it  appears  joined  on  to  A  Hew  Year's  Gift  to 
King  Charles.    This  folio  had,  of  course,  not  Jonson's  supervision. 


fuo- 


Ben  Jonson 


poet  says  that  he  has  reached  the  age  of  fifty,  in  the 
first  lines  of  the  dedication ;  and  this  would  give  them 
the  date  of  1623-4.  But  as  a  part  of  one  lyric  was 
introduced  into  '  The  Devil  is  an  Ass/  some  portion  of 
the  Lieder-Kreis  (to  use  a  convenient  German  phrase) 
must  have  been  written  as  early  as  1616.  It  is  probable 
that  they  were  indited  upon  several  occasions,  and  put 
together  with  a  view  to  publication  in  1623.  That 
Jon  son  set  a  high  value  on  them  appears  from  his  having 
recited  a  few  lines  from  the  series  to  Drummond  in 
1618.  Drummond,  writing  them  down  from  memory, 
got  them  wrong ;  but  here  is  the  passage  which  the 
author  thought  worthy  to  be  placed  beside  '  Drink  to 
me  only  with  thine  eyes  ' : — 

For  Love's  sake,  kiss  me  once  again  ; 
I  long,  and  should  not  beg  in  vain. 
Here's  none  to  spy,  or  see  ; 

Why  do  you  doubt  or  stay  ? 
I'll  taste  as  lightly  as  the  bee, 
That  doth  but  touch  his  flower  and  flies  away. 

It  was  to  the  last  two  lines  of  this  stanza  that  Jon  son 

called  his   Scotch   friend's  particular   attention.     This 

poem  is  not,  however,  that  which  modern  readers  would 

single  out  from  the  garland  of  Charis.     The  following 

rather  deserves  selection,  since  it  displays  rarer  qualities 

both  offancy  and  of  rhythmical  invention  : — 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 
Wherein  my  lady  rideth  1 
^  Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth.  .  I 

As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 
Unto  her  beauty  ; 
And,  enamoured,  do  wish,  so  they  might 
But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 


Masques  at  Court  and  Lyrics         141 

That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would  ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  compriseth  1 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth  ! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her  1 
'    And  from  her  arched  brows,  such  a  grace 
Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good,  of  the  elements'  strife.     ' 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow. 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o'  the  snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  1 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver  ? 
Or  swan's  down  ever  ? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o*  the  brier  ? 
Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  1 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  1 
0  so  white  I  0  so  soft  I  0  so  sweet  is  she  I 

From  the  poems  to  Charis  I  might  also  have  selected 
another,  headed  with  this  quaint  title  :  '  Her_Man  de- 
scribed by  her  own  Dictamen.'  It  yields  a  very  pleasant 
picture  of  what  Jonson  conceived  a  truly  desirable  young 
Englishman  of  his  epoch,  both  in  mental  and  physical 
parts,  to  be  ;  and  it  is  written  in  short  rhyming  couplets 
with  something  of  the  grace  of  Fletcher. 

In  the  foregoing  paragraphs  I  have  attempted  to 
make  an  exhaustive  enumeration  of  the  songs  and  lyrical 
pieces  which  deserve  perpetual  recollection  amid  the 
considerable  mass  of  such  work  by  Jonson.  It  will  be 
observed  that  the  list  is  by  no  means  a  long  one ;  and 
yet  rigorous  criticism  would  have  curtailed  it  by  three 


142  Ben  J  on  son  kh^  ^^  ^""^ 

or  perhaps  four  of  tlie  poems  I  have  cited.  iThe  fact 
is  that,  when  compared  with  Shakespeare,  qt"  <^v^ti  -yyjfh 
Fletcher,  Jonson  did  not  shine  in  purely  lyric  composi- 
tion, lie  may  be  said  to  have  "prqduced  five  pieces^  in 
their  kind  admirable.  These  are  ^  Drink  to  me  only 
with  thine  eyes;':  t  Queen  and  Huntress,'  ^Still  to  be 
neat,' f' Underneath  this  sable  hearse,'  and^  ^  See  the 
chariot  at  handJj  To  add  a  sixth  of  equal  excellence  to 
the  number  would,  I  think,  after  long  and  scrupulous 
consideration  of  his  writings,  be  impossible.  (Still  the 
five  which,  upon  careful  sifting,  I  now  indicate  as 
^Jonson's  masterpieces  in  purely  lyric  composition,  have 
a  quality  which  is  definite  and  individual.  No  one  be- 
fore him  wrote  pieces  of  the  sort  so  terse,  so  marked  by 
dominant  intelligence,  so  aptly  fitted  for  their  purpose. 
If  the  haunting  evanescent  exquisiteness  of  Shake- 
speare's song  is  absent,  we  have  not  the  right  to  demand 
this  from  a  singer  of  so  different  a  mould.  For  Jonson's 
fame  it  is  quite  enough  to  point  out  that  these,  rather 
than  Shakespeare's  lyrics,  struck  the  key-note  of  the 
^venteenth  century.  We  find,  even  in  Milton's  supreme 
handling  of  studied  lyric  verse,  at  least  as  much  of 
Jonson  as  of  Shakespeare  or  of  Fletche^ 


143 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SECOND   PERIOD    OF   MANHOOD. 

Resuming  the  thread  of  Jonson's  biography,  we  may 
view  the  decade  which  elapsed  between  1616  and  1626 
as  the  third  main  period  in  his  life.  The  year  1616 
was  marked,  as  I  have  already  said,  by  the  publication 
of  the  first  folio  of  his  collected  works.  It  also  witnessed 
the  representation  of  his  comedy  '  The  Devil  is  an  Ass,' 
by  the  King's  Men  at  Blackfriars.  This  play  cannot 
be  reckoned  one  of  Jonson's  masterpieces ;  though  it 
counts  an  excellently  outlined  coxcomb,  Fitzdottrell, 
among  its  dramatis  personaD,  and  perhaps  the  only  in- 
teresting female  character  he  ever  drew,  in  that  cox- 
comb's wife.  How  far  it  was  successful  on  the  stage 
at  the  time  of  its  first  representation  we  do  not  know. 
But  there  is  some  reason  to  suspect  that  it  failed  to 
please ;  for  Jonson  wholly  ceased  writing  for  the  theatres 
between  this  date  and  the  year  1625,  when  want  and 
illne^,  forced  him  once  more  to  court  the  public. 

:  That  Jonson  never  loved  the  playwright's  calling  is 
certain.  He  seems  to  have  felt  himself  born  to  rebuke 
vice  and  folly;^^^  and  since  society  refused  to  be  scourged 
with  patience  and  submission,  he  withdrew  in  dudgeon 
from  the  irksome  task  of  writing  scenes  to  amuse  its 


'144   ^  Ben  Jonson 

idleness.     In  an  ode  to  himself,  printed  in  the  ^  Under- 
woods/ we  read  this  stanza  : — 

And  since  our  dainty  age 
Cannot  endure  reproof, 
Make  not  thyself  a  page 
To  that  strumpet  the  stage, 
But  sing  high  and  aloof, 
Safe  from  the  wolf's  black  jaw  and  the  dull  ass's  hoof. 

It  should  be  remarked  that  the  last  two  lines  of  this  ode 
are  borrowed  from  the  close  of  the  ^  Apologetical  Dia- 
logue '  appended  to  the  '  Poetaster.'  The  little  poem 
may,  therefore,  have  been  written  about  the  time  when 
Jonson  first  resolved  to  abandon  comedy  and  try  the 
less  congenial  sphere  of  tragedy.  But  the  tone  of  the 
whole  piece  corresponds  so  exactly  with  that  of  the  far 
nobler  Ode  to  Himself,  which  was  written  in  1629  upon 
,-..  5,  .'the  failure  of  his  /  New  Inn,'  thafc  we  have  a  right  to 
'  VI  accept  its  sentiments  as  habitual  to  the  poet  through 
'  all  periods  of  his  life.  Of  that  haughty  and  indignant 
burst  of  lyric  inspiration,  the  last  sparkle  of  glowing 
fire  struck  from  its  author's  genius  by  rage,  I  shall  have 
to  speak  at  length  in  the  concluding  chapter  of  his  life. 
It  is  enough  now  to  notice  that  between  '  The  Devil  is 
an  Ass'  (1616)  and  ^The  Staple  of  News'  (1625)  we 
possess  no  dramatic  work  from  his  hand. 

During  this  interval,  however,  his  pen  was  not  idle. 
The  accession  of  James  to  the  English  throne  had 
opened  a  new  sphere  of  social  and  literary  activity  to 
Jonson.  His  ^  learned  sock  '  was  well  fitted  to  entertain 
a  monarch  who  piqued  himself  equally  upon  his  erudition 
and  his  statecraft.  Nor  was  the  grossness  of  the  poet's 
muse  disagreeable  to  his  royal  master's  taste.  But  with 
his  love  for  learning  James  combined  an  almost  childish 


Second  Period  of  Manhood  145 

passion  for  spectacles  and  pageants.  His  consort,  Anne 
of  Denmark,  shared  this  delight  in  costly  shows.  We 
have  already  seen  in  the  preceding  chapter  how 
splendid  were  those  entertainments  at  Whitehall,  and 
how  industriously  Jonson  laboured  to  gratify  the  whim 
of  his  patron.  When  James  went  on  progress  to  the 
houses  of  his  nobles,  Jonson  was  in  request  to  furnish 
forth  sylvan  interludes  or  complimentary  addresses. 
The  exercise  of  these  talents  brought  him  into  close 
connection  with  the  aristocracy ;  and  there  is  reason  to 
believe  that  he  made  more  money  by  his  masques  than 
by  his  comedies. 

In  other  respects  Jonson  was  a  man  after  the  King's 
heart.  He  entertained  a  profound  respect  for  the 
princely  dignity,  and  formed  a  conception  of  sove- 
reigns which  closely  corresponded  to  the  ideal  James  had 
set  before  him.  Some  sentences,  extracted  from  his 
commonplace-book  of  '  Discoveries,'  may  here  be  quoted 
in  illustration  of  his  high  monarchical  opinions  : — 

After  God,  nothing  is  to  be  loved  of  man  like  the  prince :  he 
violates  nature  that  doth  it  not  with  his  whole  heart.  For  when  he 
hath  put  on  the  care  of  the  public  good  and  common  safety,  I  am  a 
wretch  and  put  off  man  if  I  do  not  reverence  and  honour  him  in 
whose  charge  all  things  divine  and  human  are  placed. 

Wise  is  rather  the  attribute  of  a  prince  than  learned  or  good. 
The  learned  man  profits  others  rather  than  himself ;  the  good  man 
rather  himself  than  others ;  but  the  prince  commands  others  and 
doth  himself. 

A  prince  without  letters  is  a  pilot  without  eyes.  All  his  govern- 
ment is  groping.  In  sovereignty  it  is  a  most  hax^py  thing  not  to  be 
compelled ;  but  so  it  is  the  most  miserable  not  to  be  counselled. 
And  how  can  he  be  counselled  that  cannot  see  to  read  the  best 
counsellors,  which  are  books,  for  they  neither  flatter  us  nor  hide  from 
us  ?  He  may  hear,  you  will  say ;  but  how  shall  he  always  be  sure 
to  hear  true ?  or  be  counselled  the  best  things,  not  the  sweetest? 

L 


T46  Ben  Jons  on 

The  King  appointed  Jonson  Laureate,  with  a  pension 
of  100  marks  a  year.  He  is  also  said  to  have  wished 
to  dub  him  knight,  an  honour  which  the  poet  declined. 
In  the  Shrovetide  revels  at  Whitehall  Jonson  took  his 
part  together  with  the  royal  family  upon  the  stage. 
He  seems  to  have  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  their  fami- 
liarity, and  to  have  preserved  his  native  candour  in 
their  presence.  As  Drummond  reports :  '  He  said  to 
the  king,  his  master  (^.e.  tutor)  M.  G.  Buchanan  had 
corrupted  his  ear  when  young,  and  learned  him  to  sing 
verses  when  he  should  have  read  them.^  This  w^as  frank 
speech  to  a  royal  pedant !  '  He  said  to  Prince  Charles 
of  Inigo  Jones,  that  when  he  wanted  to  express  the 
greatest  villain  in  the  world,  he  would  call  him  an 
Inigo.'  Considering  the  credit  of  the  architect  at  Court, 
this  was  plain-speaking  with  a  vengeance ! 

To  mention  all  the  noble  men  and  women  with 
whom  Jonson  lived  on  terms  of  honoured  friendship,  at 
whose  country  seats  he  spent  a  portion  of  the  year,  and 
who  sought  his  society  in  London,  would  be  tedious. 
Lord  Clarendon  puts  the  matter  briefly  :  '  his  conver- 
sation was  very  good,  and  with  men  of  most  note.'  The 
minor  poems  in  his  '  Epigrams,'  '  Forest,'  and  '  Under- 
woods'  contain  verses  addressed  to  Lord  Salisbury, 
Lord  Mounteagle,  Sir  Henry  Cary,  Lord  Suffolk,  Lord 
Ellesmere,  the  Countesses  of  Bedford  and  Rutland,  Sir 
Horace  Vere,  Sir  John  Eatcliffe,  Lord  Pembroke,  Lady 
Mary  Wroth,  the  Countess  of  Montgomery,  Sir  Edward 
Herbert,  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury,  Sir  Henry  ISTevil, 
Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  Lord  Aubigny,  Sir  William 
Sidney,  Lord  Dorset,  Lord  Burleigh,  Sir  Edward  Coke, 
Lord  Bacon,'  Lord  Delaware,  Lord  Newcastle,  Lord 


Second  Period  op  Manhood  i^y 

Somerset^  the  Lady  Venetia  Digby,  the  Marchioness  of 
Winton,  and  many  others  whom  it  would  be  irksome 
to  enumerate.  The  number  of  these  patrons  is  less 
remarkable  than  the  evidence  of  manly  freedom  which 
Jonson  used  in  conversing  with  them.  Though  he  pre- 
served those  terms  of  courtesy  which  were  due  to  rank, 
lie  never  forgot  his  own  dignity.  To  Lady  Kutland, 
the  daughter  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney^  he  sent  a  copy  of 
verses  beginning  thus : — 

That  poets  are  far  rarer  births  than  kings, 

Your  noblest  father  proved. 

Very  seldom  can  he  have  been  made  to  feel  his  in- 
feriority as  a  man  of  letters  in  this  titled  company. 
The  only  hint  he  gives  of  such  treatment  seems  meant 
to  ridicule  the  man  who  took  advantage  of  his  rank. 
*  Ben  one  day  being  at  table  with  my  Lady  Rutland, 
her  husband  coming  in  accused  her  that  she  kept  table 
to  poets,  of  which  she  wrote  a  letter  to  him  [Jonson], 
which  he  answered.  My  Lord  intercepted  the  letter, 
but  never  challenged  him.'  The  Sidneys  and  the  Her- 
berts appear  to  have  been  most  generous  in  their  kind- 
ness. Lord  Pembroke  sent  him  every  first  day  of  the 
year  20L  to  buy  books.  At  Penshurst  he  was  un- 
doubtedly a  frequent  guest,  as  the  delightful  poem  on 
Sir  Philip  Sidney's  birthplace,  in  '  The  Forest,'  abun- 
dantly proves.^  -  It  was  not  only  with  the  great,  how- 
ever, that  Jonson  lived  on  terms  of  intimacy.  Pie  kept 
company  with  the  best  poets,  wits,  and  men  of  learning. 
Selden,  Camden,  Bacon,  Donne,  Beaumont,  Sylvester, 
Alleyn,  Shakespeare,  Fletcher,  Drayton,  Chapman,  all 
remain  embalmed  in  verses  which  only  the  familiarity 

1  The  Forest,  1^0,  ii. 

1.2 


148  Ben  JonsoM 

of  affectionate  friendsliip  can  have  inspired.     The  lines 

to  Francis  Beaumont^  often  as  they  have  been  quoted, 

are  too  representative  of  Jonson's  cordial  relations  to 

his  brother  bards  to  be  here  omitted  : — 

How  do  I  love  thee,  Beaumont,  and  thy  muse, 
That  unto  me  dost  such  religion  use  I 
How  do  I  fear  myself,  that  am  not  worth 
The  least  indulgent  thought  thy  pen  drops  forth ! 
At  once  thou  mak'st  me  happy,  and  unmak'st ; 
And  giving  largely  to  me,  more  thou  tak'st. 
What  fate  is  mine,  that  so  itself  bereaves  ? 
What  art  is  thine,  that  so  thy  friend  deceives  ? 
When  even  there,  where  most  thou  praisest  me, 
jjt^    -Oj/^  For  writing  better,  I  must  envy  thee. 

Alleyn,  the  actor,  he  compares  to  Eoscius;  Donne  he 
calls  '  the  delight  of  Phoebus  and  each  Muse ' ;  '  my 
loved '  Alfonso  Ferrabosco  is  complimented  in  delicate 
strains  upon  the  soothing  sweetness  of  his  music ;  Selden 
receives  the  most  triumphant  eulogy  which  verse  can 
give:— 

Nothing  but  the  round 
Large  clasp  of  nature  such  a  wit  can  bound. 
Monarch  of  letters  !  'mongst  thy  titles  shown 
Of  others'  honours,  thus  enjoy  thy  own  I 

Bacon's    birth   to    greatness    is    no    less    felicitously 

touched  : — 

The  destined  heir 
In  his  soft  cradle  to  his  father's  chair ; 
AVhose  even  thread  the  Fates  spin  round  and  full 
Out  of  their  choicest  and  their  whitest  wool.^ 

But  it  would  be  easy  to  fill  many  pages  with  quota- 
tions,  proving    the    largeness    and    the    sincerity   of 

*  Compare  the  passages  /  on  Bacon  as  a  writer  and  a  man  in  the 
DUcoxerics. 


Second  Period  of  Manhood         ,  149 


V,.--  '- 


Jon  son's  admiration  for  liis  illustrious  contemporaries. 
Before  such  a  mass  of  testimony  the  idle  calumny  that 
he  was  jealous  of  Shakespeare  sinks  to  nothing ;  and  the 
immortal  panegyric,  written  for  the  folio  of  1623,  stands 
out  clear  in  its  candour,  when  we  read  it  by  the  light 
of  less  enthusiastic  verses  upon  men  of  minor  merit. 

It  will  be  noted,  both  in  his  compliments  to  folk  of 
rank  and  in  his  eulogies  on  men  of  arts  and  letters, 
that  Jonson  never  adopts  the  tone  of  servile  adulation 
or  of  undiscriminating  praise.  He  exercises  a  sound 
understanding  in  each  case,  selecting  what  is  specific  in 
the  subject  of  his  verse,  and  making  just  criticism 
subserve  the  purposes  of  commendation.  Thus,  when 
Buch  superlatives  break  forth,  as  to  Qa^mden : — 

Most  reverend  head,  to  whom  I  owe 
All  that  I  am  in  arts,  all  that  I  know  I// 

to  Shakespeare,  '  Shine  forth,  thou  star  of  poets ! '  to 
Selden,  '  Monarch  of  letters ! '  to  Beaumont,  '  How  do 
I  love  thee  and  thy  muse ! '  we  have  a  right  to  believe 
that  the  heart  itself  is  speaking  its  own  language. 

How  genial  Jonson  was  in  his  familiar  discourse  with 
friends  may  be  gathered  from  the  neat  ^  Invitation  to 
Supper '  which  he  partially  borrowed  from  an  epigram  of 
Martial,  adapting  it  to  English  manners.^  The  mention 
of  these  verses  brings  me  to  consider  another,  and  not  less 
famous,  aspect  of  Ben  Jonson's  private  life — I  mean  his 
frequenting  of  the  London  taverns,  and  his  genial  dicta- 
torship over  wits  and  gallants  at  their  merry  meetings. 
In  discussing  this  topic  we  must  not  forget  that,  in  an 
age  when  clubs  did  not  exist,  the  tavern  bore  a  higher 

'  EpigraviSi  No.  ci, 


150    .  Ben  JoNSON 

reputation  than  its  name  now  implies.  It  corresponded 
to  the  coffee-house  of  Dryden's  and  Pope's  epoch,  and 
fulfilled  a  purpose  to  which  no  institution  of  the  present 
day  in  England  exactly  answers.  The  tavern  differed 
frdm  the  private  club,  inasmuch  as  its  door  stood  open 
to  all  the  world;  and  yet  its  holiest  of  holies,  the 
sanctuary  of  such  great  folk  as  Chapman  and  Jonson, 
was  only  accessible  by  aspirants  to  literary  society  upon 
invitation.  It  was  at  once  exclusive  of  the  common 
vulgar,  and  democratic  for  all  who  could  contribute 
something  to  the  intellectual  fund.  Lords,  poets,  men 
pf  learning,  actors,  fashionable  fribblerSj  and  wine- 
drawers  met  together  on  a  common  basis  of  intense  life 
there.  Eegarded  from  this  point  of  view,  the  Eliza- 
bethan London  tavern,  as  a  social  institution  of  peculiar 
efficiency,  drew  its  origin  from  wandering  students  of 
the  Middle  Ages.     Their  chief  poet  sang : — 

Meum  est  propositum 
In  taberna  mori. 

^  It  is  my  intention,'  said  the  arch-bard  of  those  early 
humanists  and  rollicking  Bohemians,  ^  to  die  in  a 
tavern;  for  there,  as  to  the  brightest  spot  on  earth, 
the  angels  will  descend,  and  cry  in  chorus.  May  God 
be  gracious  to  this  toper.'  The  age  wasone  attuned  to 
wine,  rather  than  to  chocolate  and  coffee— those  later 
growths  of  modern  civilisation.  And  the  tavern  had  the 
defect  of  its  quality.  It  encouraged  an  excess  in  liquors, 
frorcLwhich,  among  many  others,  Jonson  suffered.  The 
inheritors  of  his  position  and  renown,  the  heroes  of 
Button's  in  a  later  century,  in  addition  to  their  wine, 
drank  aromatic  juices  ihfused  from  the  leaf,  the  berry,  and 


Second  Period  of  Manhood  151 

the  nut.  He  filled  beakers  of  topaz-coloured  Canary,  and 
quaffed  tliem  in  the  company  of  Selden,  Shakespeare, 
Beaumont,  Herrick,  and  less  famous  folk  of  rank  and 
fashion. 

Sir  Walter  Ealeigh  is  said  to  have  founded  the  club 
which  flourished  at  the  Mermaid  in  Bread  Street  on 
Cheapside.  This  was  the  place  where  Jonson  held  his 
earliest  revels.  Here  the  best  men  of  the  epoch 
gathered  round  him ;  and  of  their  meetings  we  have  a 
fit  memorial  in  Beaumont's  verse  : — 

Methinks  the  little  wit  I  had  is  lost 

Since  I  saw  you;  for  wit  is  like  a  rest 

Held  up  at  tennis,  which  men  do  the  best 

With  the  best  gamesters.     What  things  have  we  seen 

Done  at  the  Mermaid  !  heard  words  that  have  been 

So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 

As  if- that  every  one  from  whence  they  came 

Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest. 

And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 

Of  his  dull  life ;  then  when  there  hath  been  thrown 

Wit  able  enough  to  justify  the  town 

For  three  days  past — wit  that  might  warrant  be 

For  the  whole  city  to  talk  foolishly 

Till  that  were  cancelled — and  when  that  was  gone, 

We  left  an  air  behind  us,  which  alone 

Was  able  to  make  the  two  next  companies 

(Right  witty,  though  but  downright  fools)  more  wise. 

These  gatherings,  so  enthusiastically  celebrated  by 
Beaumont,  even  to  the  point  of  literary  incohereuce, 
recall  the  grave  and  well-weighed  words  of  Fuller : 
'  Mauy  were  the  wit-combats  between  Shakespeare  and 
Ben  Jonson.  I  behold  them  like  a  Spanish  great 
galleon  and  an  English  man-of-war.  Master  Jonson, 
like  the  former,  was  built  far  higher  in  learning,  solid 
but  slow  in  his  performances  3^  Shakespeare,  like  the 


152  Ben  JoNsoN 

latter,  lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  could  turn 
with  all  tides,  tack  about,  and  take  advantage  of  all 
winds  by  the  quickness  of  his  wit  and  invention.'  It  is 
no  wonder  that,  pondering  upon  the  honeyed  lines  of 
Beaumont  and  the  buoyant  sentences  of  Fuller,  Keats 
should  have  indited,  with  eager  heart  and  watering 
mouth,  those  lines  upon  the  Mermaid  Tavern,  over 
which  Hhe  sweet  witty  soul'  of  the  Elizabethan  age 
has  passed ! 

The  Mermaid  was  not  the  only  or  the  last  of  taverns 
frequented  by  Eare  Ben.  Herrick,  in  one  of  his  most 
genial  lyrics,  gives  a  list  of  several  others  : — - 

Ah  Ben 
Say  how,  or  when 

Shall  we  thy  guests 
Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts, 

Made  at  the  Sun, 
The  I)og,  the  Triple  Tan? 

Where  we  such  clusters  had 
As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad  ; 
And  yet  each  venie  of  thine 
Outdid  the  meat,  outdid  the  frolic  wine. 

My  Ben 
Or  come  again ; 

Or  send  to  us 
Thy  wit's  great  over-plus  : 

But  teach  us  yet 
Wisely  to  husband  it ; 

Lest  we  that  talent  spend, 
And  having  once  brought  to  an  end 

That  precious  stock,  the  store 
Of  such  a  wit,  the  world  should  have  no  more. 

Thus  it  would  seem  that  Jonson  frequented  more 
taverns  than  the  Mermaid.  Herrick  mentions  the  Sun, 
the  Dog,  the  Triple  Tun.     Their  names,  in  fact,  were 


Second  Period  of  Manhood  153 

legion.  But  the  most  truly  Jonsonian  of  ,all  these 
places  remains  to  be  spoken  of.  This  was  the  Old 
Devil  Tavern  at  Temple  Bar.  Here,  in  his  ripe  years, 
he  lorded  it  over  the  society  of  wits.  Here  was  found 
the  famous  Apollo  room,  where  his  club  held  its  sittings, 
and  for  which  he  wrote  Convivial  Laws,  engraven  in 
gold  letters  upon  black  marble  above  the  chimney-piece. 
These  laws,  composed  in  terse  Latin,  are  much  to  the 
point,  and  cannot  well  be  translated  into  English  : — ^ 

Idiota,  insulsus,  tristis,  turpis,  abesto  ; 
Eruditi,  urbani,  hilares,  honesti,  adsciscuntor ; 
Nee  lectae  foeminae  repudiantor. 


Convivae  nee  muti  nee  loquaees  sunto. 

Fidicen,  nisi  aceersitus,  non  venito. 

Insipida  poemata  nulla  reeitantor. 

Versus  scribere  nullus  cogitor. 

Lapitharum  more  seyphis  pugnare,  vitrea  collidere, 

Fenestras  exeudere,  supellectilem  dilacerare,  nefas  csto. 

Foeus  perennis  esto. 

*  I  must,  however,  attempt  a  version  of  those  spceimens  which 
have  been  given  above  :  — 

Let  the  dullard,  the  ass,  the  sad-faced,  the  lewd  fellow,  keep  away ; 
The  learned,  urbane,  merry,  good  fellows,  be  welcome  ; 
Nor  let  choice  women  be  excluded. 

The  guests  should  be  neither  dumb  nor  garrulous. 

No  tiddler,  except  on  invitation,  shall  attend. 

No  tasteless  poems  shall  be  read. 

No  one  shall  be  forced  to  write  verses. 

To  throw  cups,  break  glasses,  smash  windows, 

Tear  the  furniture  to  pieces,  shall  be  counted  for  a  crime. 

The  fire  upon  the  hearth  must  always  burn, 


154  ,  Ben  JoNsoN 

The  name  of  tlie  good  Boniface  who  kept  this  tavern  in 
the  clays  of  Jonson — Simon  Wadloe,  or  old  Sim,  or  old 
Sir  Simon  the  King — deserves  to  be  commemorated. 
Here,  too,  would  be  the  place  to  quote  some  vigorous 
lines  written  by  Jon  son's  disciple,  Shackerley  Marmion, 
in  his  comedy  '  A  Fine  Companion.'  Since  they  de- 
scribe Jonson's  presidency  of  the  Apollo  club,  they  form 
a  proper  pendant  to  the  verses  already  extracted  from 
Beaumont's  poem  on  the  Mermaid.  Careless,  a  young 
gallant,  comes  upon  the  stage  drunk,  and  meets 
Aemilia,  to  whom,  at  the  end  of  the  play,  he  gives  his 
hand  : — 

Car.    Save  yon,  fair  lady. 

Aem.  Save  you,  Master  Careless. 

Car.   Will  you  hear  me  speak  anywise  sentences? 
I  am  now  as  discreet  in  my  conceit 
As  the  seven  Sophies  of  Greece,  I  am  full 
Of  oracles,  I  am  come  from  Apollo  ; 
Would  he' had  lent  me  his  tripos  to  stand  upon, 
For  my  two  legs  can  hardly  carry  me. 

Aem.  Whence  come  you  ?  from  Apollo  1 

Car.  From  the  heaven 

Of  my  delight,  where  the  boon  Delphic  god 
Drinks  sack,  and  keeps  his  Bacchanalias, 
And  has  his  incense  and  his  altars  smoking, 
And  speaks  in  sparkling  prophecies:  thence  do  I  come  I 
My  brains  perfumed  with  the  rich  Indian  vapour. 
And  heightened  with  conceits,  from  tempting  beauties. 
From  dainty  music  and  poetic  strains, 
From  bowls  of  nectar  and  ambrosiac  dishes, 
From  witty  varlets,  fine  companions, 
And  from  a  mighty  continent  of  pleasure. 
Sails  thy  brave  Careless. 

There  were  not  wanting  evil  tongues  who  pretended 
that  Jonson's   inspiration   flowed   from   Mermaid   and 


Second  Period  of  Manhood  155 

Apollo  fountains.  But  these  were  riglitly  spurned  by 
his  true  devotees.     Jasper  Mayne  writes  : — 

Scorn  then  their  censures  who  gave  out  thy  wit- 
As  long  upon  a  comedy  did  sit 
As  elephants  bring  1  orth  ;  and  that  thy  blots 
And  mendings  took  more  time  than  Fortune-plots : 
That  such  thy  drought  was,  and  so  great  thy  thirst, 
That  all  thy  plays  were  drawn  at  the  IMermaid  first ; 
That  the  King's  yearly  butt  wrote,  and  his  wine 
Hath  more  right  tlian  thou  to  thy  Catiline. 

The  gentle  Falkland,  in  his  Eclogue  on  the  memory  of 
Jonson,  has  painted  the  recourse  of  wits  to  that  Phcebean 
chamber  of  the  Devil  in  sweet  numbers : — 

To  him  how  daily  flocked,  what  reverence  gave, 
All  that  had  \yit  or  would  be  thought  to  have. 
Or  hope  to  gain,  and  in  so  large  a  store 
That  to  his  ashes  they  can  pay  no  more. 
Except  those  few  who  censuring  thought  not  so 
But  aimed  at  glory  from  so  great  a  foe ; 
How  the  wise  too  did  with  mere  wits  agree,  ' 
As  Pembroke,  Portland,  and  grave  Aubigny, 
Nor  thought  the  rigidest  senator  a  shame 
To  contribute  to  so  deserved  a  fame. 

The  student  of  English  culture  in  its  two  great  phases 
of  Elizabeth  and  Anne  may  pause  to  consider  how  fre- 
quently the  word  '  wit'  occurs  in  the  former,  and  how  it 
is  as  frequently  replaced  by  '  sense '  in  the  latter  period. 
It  was  in  these  convivial  meetings  that  men  of 
letters,  emulous  of  reputation,  '  sealed  themselves  of  the 
tribe  of  Ben.'  Field,  Brome,  Cartwright,  Marmion, 
RandolpEr~among  playwrights ;  Bishop  Morley,  Lord 
Falkland,  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  Sir  Henry  Morison,  and 
Sir  John  Suckling  among  men  of  station;  Herrick, 
Rutter,     and     Howell     among    writers,    sought    this 


IS^  Ben  JoNSON 

honour.  Jonson  called  them  his  sons,  and  they  were 
proud  of  the  title.  In  his  ^Underwoods '  he  printed 
an  epistle  '  to  one  that  asked  to  be  sealed  of  the  tribe 
of  Ben,'  drawing  the  jDortrait  of  those  who  answered  to 
his  conception  of  manhood  : — 

So  short  you  read  my  character,  and  theirs 

I  would  call  mine ;  to  winch  not  manj'^  stairs 

Are  asked  to  climb.     First  give  me  faith,  who  know 

Myself  a  little.     I  will  take  you  so, 

As  you  have  wTit  yourself.     Now  stand,  and  then, 

Sir,  you  are  sealed  of  the  Tribe  of  Ben. 

So  many  points  of  close  resemblance  between  Ben 
Jonson  and  Samuel  Johnson,  as  regards  mind,  person, 
character,  and  habits,  present  themselves  unsought,  that 
it  would  argue  affectation  to  ignore  them.  Both  were 
confirmed  Londoners ;  both  felt  the  .town  to  be  their 
element.  Both  were  huge,  unwieldy,  unhealthy  men. 
Both  possessed  vast  memories  and  mighty  erudition, 
and  were  of, a  stamp  to  have  been  eminent  in  many 
branches  of  human  activity  if  circumstance  had  not 
made  them  authors.  Both,  as  characters,  were  greater 
and  more  influential  even  than  as  men  of  letters.  Both, 
as  it  happens,  made  short  journeys  into  France  and 
Scotland ;  and  each  found  in  a  Scotchman  his  biographer. 
Here,  however,  a  notable  distinction  has  to  be  drawn. 
No  one,  I  presume,  is  ignorant  how  specially  fortunate 
was  Samuel  Johnson  in  having  James  Boswell,  of 
Auchinleck,  Esq.,  for  his  biographer.  Could  Boswell's 
'  Life  of  Johnson '  be  expunged  from  English  literature, 
the  world  would  be  poorer  by  the  loss  of  one  of  the 
small  number  of  books  fit  to  live  for  ever.  This  can- 
not be  said  about  the  Notes  of  Jonson's  Conversations 


Second  PskioD  op  Manhood  1S7 

recorded  by  William  Drummond  of  Hawthornden.  They 
are  meagre  and  perhaps,  to  some  extent,  unsympathetic. 
They  only  relate  what  passed  in  talk  during  Jonson's 
short  visit  to  Hawthornden,  and  they  reveal  no  special 
insight  into  his  character.  Yet,  such  as  they  are,  pos- 
terity has  to  be  very  grateful  to  Drummond  for  this 
gift.  Without  his  notes  we  should  command  far  less  > 
knowledge  of  Jonson's  opinions,  temperament,  and  ex- 
periences than  we  now  possess.  Slight  therefore  as  the 
record  is,  the  students  of  his  life  and  genius  find  it  in- 
valuable. But  they  should  always  be  careful  to  correct 
these  jottings  of  his  table-talk  by  comparing  them  with 
his  own  '  Discoveries.'  A  correct  estimate  of  his  cha- 
racter can  be  best  formed  upon  this  method. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1618  that  Jonson  conceived 
and  executed  the  project  of  walking  on  foot  to  Edin- 
burgh. Pedestrian  excursions  were  not  altogether  un- 
fashionable in  that  age.  Tom  Coryat,  the  eccentric 
traveller  of  Odcome,  had  trudged  on  the  hard  hoof  over 
Europe  and  part  of  Asia,  bequeathing  to  the  world 
those  amusing  '  Crudities '  which  won  the  ridicule  of 
his  contemporaries  and  have  since  formed  the  delight 
of  antiquarian  readers.  Almost  at  the  same  time  as 
Jonson,  Taylor,  the  dogget-el  water-poet,  performed  his 
once  famous  '  Penniless  Journey '  on  foot  to  Scotland. 
They  came  together  at  Leith  in  September,  when 
Jonson  gave  his  fellow-tramp  '  a  piece  of  gold  of  two 
and  twenty  shillings  to  drink  his  health  in  England.' 
Touching  his  own  journey,  he  told  Drummond  an 
amusing  anecdote :  'At  his  hither  coming.  Sir  Francis 
Bacon  said  to  him,  He  loved  not  to  see  Poesy  go  on 
other  feet  than  poetical  Dactylus  and  Spondaeus.'     At 


158  Ben  JoNsoN 

what  time  lie  made  Drummond's  acquaintance  is  not 
certain.  We  may  probably  assume  that  they  first  met 
in  Edinburgh  toward  the  end  of  1618,  and  that  the 
visit  to  Hawthornden  took  place  early  in  1619.  About 
January  27  Jonson  set  oif  again  from  Leith  on  his 
homeward  journey. 

There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Jonson's  visit  to 
Scotland  was  in  any  way  occasioned  by  a  desire  to  see 
William  Drummond.  He  believed  Annandale  to  be 
the  cradle  of  his  ancestry,  and  King  James  may  have 
whetted  the  Laureate's  curiosity  to  become  personally  ac- 
quainted with  his  country-folk.  Drummond  himself  cut 
a  considerable  figure  among  the  minor  poets  of  his  day. 
He  could  write  English  with  tolerable  purity,  but  with 
something  of  the  stifihess  which  betrays  the  use  of  a 
half-foreign  language.  He  took  Italian  versifiers  for 
his  models,  and  composed  some  meditative  sonnets  dis- 
tinguished for  sweetness  and  a  genuine  love  of  nature. 
Well-born  and  well-educated  both  by  reading  and  by 
foreign  travel,  he  owned  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
seats  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Edinburgh — 
a  grey-stone  house,  perched  upon  rocks,  commanding  a 
romantic,  richly-wooded  glen.  In  his  time  he  had  played 
the  courtier,  composing  an  elegy  upon  the  death  of 
Prince  Henry  ('  Tears  on  the  Death  of  Moeliades'),  and 
a  complimentary  poem  on  the  visit  made  by  James  in 
1617  to  Scotland  Q  Forth  Feasting').  A  scholar-poet 
of  Drummond's  stamp  was  naturally  eager  to  gain  the 
friendship  of  the  Scotch  king's  Laureate,  one  who 
ranked  at  this  date  as  the  foremost  man  of  fine  letters 
in  England. 

Jonson,  in  his  usual  free  and  easy  way,  was  liberal  of 
candid  criticism  to  his  new  friend.     '  His  censure  of  my 


Second  Period  of  Manhood  159 

verses  was:  That  tliey  were  all  good,  especially  my 
Epitaph  of  the  Prince,  save  that  they  smellecl  too  much 
of  the  schools,  and  were  not  after  the  fancy  of  the  time  ; 
for  a  child  (says  he)  may  write  after  the  fashion  of  tlie 
Greeks  and  Latin  verses  in  running ;  yet  that  he  wished, 
to  please  the  King,  that  piece  of  Forth  Feasting  had 
been  his  own.'  Drummond  piqued  himself  on  polished 
imitations  of  complex  Italian  rhyming  stanzas.  Jonson 
told  him  that  he  detested  all  rhymes  except  couplets, 
'  and  that  cross  rhymes  and  stanzas  (because  the  pur- 
pose would  lead  him  beyond  eight  lines  to  conclude) 
were  all  forced.'  He  also  passed  a  severe  judgment  on 
the  grand  Spenserian  stanza,  and  '  cursed  Petrarch  for 
redacting  verses  to  sonnets ;  which  he  said  were  like 
that  tyrant's  bed,  where  some  who  were  too  short  were 
racked,  others  too  long  cut  short.'  These  criticisms, 
together  with  slashing  observations  on  Italian  and 
French  poets,  which  roused  Drummond  to  the  side- 
remark  that  '  All  this  was  to  no  purpose,  for  he  [Jonson] 
neither  doth  understand  French  nor  Italians,'  were 
hardly  calculated  to  secure  the  perfect  sympathy  of  an 
Italianated  brother-poet.  That  thin  thread  of  bitter 
feeling,  which  may  certainly  be  traced  in  Drummond's 
notes,  is  therefore  sufficiently  accounted  for.  The  men 
were  of  a  different  temperament  and  diverse  breeding. 
Yet  it  would  be  absurd,  as  Gifford  and  others  have  done, 
to  detect  ill-feeling  and  deliberate  malice  in  a  series  of 
useful  jottings,  drawn  up  with  the  obvious  intention  of 
preserving  a  great  man's  sayings,  and  with  no  view  to 
their  publication.^ 

*  The  conversations  were  first  printed  in  extenso  in  1842,  for  the 
Shakespeare  Society,  from  a  MS.  belonging  to  the  Edinburgh 
Faculty  of  Advocates. 


i6o  Ben  JoNsoN 

I  shall  take  tliis  opportunity  of  drawing  upon  tlie 
conversations  for  details  illustrative  of  Jonson's  views 
on  matters  not  immediately  connected  witli  his  bio- 
graphy. It  must  be  remembered  that  his  bent  of  mind 
was  nothing  if  not  critical,  and  that  he  spoke  liberally 
what  he  thought,  upon  the  spur  of  the  moment.  This 
will  account  for  some  of  tlie  hard  blows  he  dealt  to  his 
contemporaries.  '  He  esteemeth  John  Donne  the  first 
poet  in  the  world  in  some  things  :  his  verses  of  the  Lost 
Chain  he  hath  by  heart ;  and  that  passage  of  the  Calm, 
''  That  dust  and  feathers  do  not  stir,  all  was  so  quiet." 
Affirmeth  Donne  to  have  written  all  his  best  pieces  ere 
he  was  25  years  old.'  '  That  Donne's  Anniversary  was 
profane  and  full  of  blasphemies.'  '  That  Donne,  for  not 
keeping  of  accent,  deserved  hanging.'  '  That  Donne 
himself,  for  not  being  understood,  w^ould  perish.'  '  That 
Shakespeare  wanted  art.'  '  Sir  Edward  Wotton's  verses 
of  a  Happy  Life  he  hath  by  heart.'  '  That  Sir  John  Har- 
ington's  Ariosto,  under  all  translations,  was  the  worst.' 
'  That  Francis  Beaumont  loved  too  much  himself  and 
his  own  verses.'  ^  That  Southwell  was  hanged ;  yet  so 
he  had  written  that  piece  of  his,  the  Burning  Babe,  he 
w^ould  have  been  content  to  destroy  many  of  his.'  '  That 
Sir  W.  Raleigh  esteemed  more  of  fame  than  conscience. 
The  best  wits  of  England  were  employed  for  making 
his  history.'  ^  Marston  wrote  his  father-in-law's  preach- 
ings and  his  father-in-law  his  Comedies.'  ^  '  Shake- 
speare, in  a  play,  brought  in  a  number  of  men  saying 
they  had  suffered  shipwreck  in  Bohemia,  where  is  no 
sea  near  by  some  100  miles.' 

^  The  fatlier-in-law,  William  Wilkes,  was  a  parson.     This  epi- 
gram therefore  kills  two  birds  with  one  stone. 


OF 

Second  Period  of^ 

Such  are  among  the  most  notable  of  Jonson's  dicta 
on  the  poets  of  his  day ;  and  posterity,  on  points  where 
we  can  check  him,  will  not  find  much  to  traverse  or 
arraign  upon  the  score  of  spite.  In  Jonson's  sense  of 
the  word,  Shakespeare  certainly  wanted  art ;  and  there 
is  no  doubt  that  Bohemia  has  no  sea-coast.  More  valid 
exception  may  perhaps  be  taken  to  what  he  spoke  about 
himself.  And  yet,  when  these  casual  remarks  are  put 
together,  we  shall  acknowledge  that  he  had  formed  a 
just  estimate  of  his  own  talents.  ^  He  was  better  versed, 
"and^ew  more  in  Greek  and  Latin,  than  all  the  poets  in 
England,  and  quintessence  their  brains.'  '  He  dissuaded 
me  from  poetry,  for  that  she  had  beggared  him,  when 
he  might  have  been  a  rich  lawyer,  physician,  or  mer- 
chant.' ^  Of  all  styles  he  loved  most  to  be  named 
Honest,  and  hath  of  that  one  hundred  letters  so  naming 
him.'  '  In  his  merry  humour  he  was  wont  to  name 
himself  The  Poet.'  '  He  would  not  flatter  though  he 
saw  Death.'  ^  He  never  esteemed  a  man  for  the  name 
of  a  lord/  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  frank  enough 
in  telling  stories  against  himself;  as,  for  instance,  how 
'  a  gentleman  drank  him  drowsy '  upon  one  occasion ; 
and  there  are  several  anecdotes  concerning  his  relations 
to  the  fair  sex  which  do  not  bear  repetition.  That  he 
agreed  with  the  minister  who  taught  his  flock  to  pray 
God  for  '  a  gude  conceit  of  our  sels,'  appears  from  advice 
given  to  Drummond :  '  He  said  to  me  that  I  was  too 
good  and  simple,  and  that  oft  a  man's  modesty  made  a 
fool  of  his  wit.' 

After  minuting  the  notes  of  Jonson's  Conversations, 
Drummond  sat  down  and  wrote  these  general  impres- 
sions of  his  guest :  '  He  is  a  great  lover  and  praiser  of 

M 


1 62  Ben  JoNSON 

liiinself ;  \a  contemner  and  scorner  of  others ;  given 
rather  to  lose  a  friend  than  a  jest ;  jealous  of  every 
word  and  action  of  those  about  Jiim  (especially  after 
drink,  which  is  one  of  the  elements  in  which  he  liveth)  ; 
a  dissembler  of  ill  parts  which  reign  in  him,  a  bragger 
of  some  good  that  he  wanteth ;  thinketh  nothing  well 
but  what  either  he  himself  or  some  of  his  fi'iends  and 
countrymen  hath  said  or  done  ;  he  is  passionately  kind 
and  angry ;  careless  either  to  gain  or  keep ;  vindicative, 
but,  if  he  be  well  answered,  at  himself. 

'For  any  religion,  as  being  versed  in  both.     In-    . 
terpreteth  best  sayings  and  deeds  often  to  the  worst. 
Oppressed  with  fantasy,  which  hath  ever  mastered  \m~ 
reason,  a  general  disease  in  many  Poets.     His  inven- 
tions are  smooth  and  easy ;  but  above  all  he  excelleth 
in  a  Translation.' 

No  one  possessed  of'  any  sense  of  humour  will  fail 
to  appreciate  the  circumstances  under  which  these 
paragraphs  were  penned,  or  to  recognise  the  real  linea- 
ments of  Eare  Ben  in  the  perplexed  portrait  drawn  of 
iiim  by  his  fatigued  host.  After  spending  some  days 
in  a  country  house  alone  with  its  master,  few  men 
would  care  to  have  their  characters  sketched  by  him 
upon  the  moTning  after  their  departure.  The  situation 
is  one  unfavourable  to  impartial  and  judicial  summing- 
up.  And  here  was  a  precise,  highly-cultivated,  gentle- 
manly Scotsman,  who  had  been  entertaining  the  dictator 
of  London  taverns  and  the  would-be  censor  of  his  age. 
Jonson's  frailties  had  certainly  made  themselves  suffi- 
ciently manifest.  His  boisterous  self-assertion,  his  broad 
criticism,  his  bragging  independence,  his  wine-bibbing 
propensities,  his  heat  of  temper  and  rough  indifference' 


-   '  Second  Period  of  Manhood       ^     163 

to^jopinion,  his  huge,  ungainly  personality  puffed  up 
with  a  Titanic  consciousness  of  strength,  wer0  sufficient 
to  overpower  the  ceremonious  and  compassed  Scotch 
laird.  Drummond,  we  may  be  sure,  was  not  sorry  on 
January  19, 1619,  when  he  dated  this  review  of  Jonson's 
character,  to  be  rid  of  the  great  man's  company.  And 
yet  we  feel  throughout  his  notes  that  he  was  interested 
in  Jonson,  and  respectful  of  his  judgment.  The  total 
result  seems  to  me  more  favourable  than  might  have 
been  expected.  For  those  who  can  bear  to  look  dis- 
passionately upon  both  Jonson  and  his  host,  and  who 
can  make  reasonable  allowances  for  the  conditions  under 
which  the  latter  drew  up  his  recollections,  the  sketch 
will  have  the  value  of  a  bad  photograph.  Considering 
what  our  information  regarding  departed  men  of 
eminence  for  the  most  part  really  is,  this  may  be  ac- 
cepted with  thanksgiving.  A  merciless  photograph  is 
better  than  a  flattering  oil  picture  by  Lawrence. 

At  any  rate,  Jonson  parted  from  his  host  in  no 
ungenial  humour.  He  promised  to  send  Drummond, 
'if  he  died  by  the  way,  his  papers  of  this  country, 
hewn  as  they  were,'  that  is  to  say,  his  rough  notes  pn 
Scotland.  Drummond,  upon  his  part,  undertook  to 
forward  him  '  Descriptions  of  Edinburgh,  Borrow 
Lawes,  and  of  the  Lomond.'  It  appears  from  the 
*  Conversations  '  that  Jonson  contemplated  two  literary 
monuments  of  his  Scotch  journey.  '  He  hath  intention 
to  write  a  fisher  or  pastoral  play,  and  set  the  stage  of 
it  in  the  Lomond  Lake.'  Also,  '  he  is  to  write  his  foot- 
pilgrimage  hither,  and  to  call  it  a  Discovery.'  This 
explains  the  promised  interchange  of  papers.  But  the 
piscatory  drama   and  the   history   of   the    pedestrian 

-  m2 


164  Ben  JoNsoN 

journey  are  both  wanting.  The  latter,  as  a  pendant  to 
Samuel  Johnson's  '  Tour  in  the  Hebrides,'  would  have 
been  of  the  highest  interest.  It  perished  in  the  con- 
flagration of  his  library.  The  former  we  can  spare  with 
greater  equanimity ;  for  of  Jonson's  poetry  we  possess 
a  sufficient  quantity,  and  the  loss  of  this  play  is  less  to 
be  regretted  than  that  of  his  earliest  dramatic  work. 
It  is  not  impossible  that  a  rough  draft  of  the  Loch 
Lomond  pastoral  was  also  burned. 

At  some  date  before  1625,  and  subsequently  to  his 
return  from  Scotland,  Jonson  wrote  a  copy  of  verses, 
entitled  '  An  Execration  upon  Vulcan.'  It  commemo- 
rates the  burning  of  his  books  and  MSS.  by  accident. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  he  had  collected  a  fine  library  of 
classical,  medieval,  and  more  recent  European  literature, 
Selden,  in  his  '  Titles  of  Honour,'  pays  a  particular 
compliment  to  its  extent  and  choice  variety.  Having 
occasion  to  consult  the  scholiasts  on  Euripides'  '  Orestes,' 
'I  went,'  he  says,  'for  this  purpose,  to  see  it  in  the 
well-furnished  library  of  my  beloved  friend,  that  singular 
poet.  Master  Ben  Jonson,  whose  special  worth  in  litera- 
ture, accurate  judgment  and  performance,  known  only 
to  that  few  which  are  truly  able  to  know  him,  hath  had 
from  me,  ever  since  I  began  to  learn,  an  increasing 
admiration.'  Of  his  stores,  selected  with  the  taste  of 
an  accomplished  scholar,  Jonson  was  abundantly  liberal 
t  o  students.  D'Israeli,  in  his  *  Quarrels  of  Authors,' 
bears  testimony  to  the  number  of  gift-books  inscribed 
by  Jonson,  which  were  current  in  his  day :  '  No  poet 
has  left  behind  him,  in  MS.,  so  many  testimonies  of 
personal  fondness  as  Jonson,  by  inscriptions  and  ad- 
dresses in  the  copies  of  his  works  which  he  preseuted 


S  ECO  YD  Period  of  Manhood  165 

to  Ills  friends.  Of  these  I  have  seen  more  than  one, 
fervent  and  impressive.'  Gifford  adds  :  '  I  am  fully 
warranted  in  saying  that  more  valuable  books  given  to 
individuals  by  Jonson  are  yet  to  be  met  with,  than  by 
any  person  of  that  age.  Scores  of  them  have  fallen 
under  my  own  inspection,  and  I  have  heard  of  abun- 
dance of  others.'  In  the  first  volume  of  his  edition  of 
'  Jonson's  Works'  (London,  1816),  Gifford  facsimiled 
an  autograph  dedication  by  Jonson  of  a  copy  of  Persius 
to  his  friend  John  Kowe.  It  runs  as  follows :  ^  '  D : 
Joanni  Howe  Amico  Probatissimo  Hunc  Amorem  et 
Delicias  suas  Satiricorum  do3tissimum  Persium  cum 
doctissimo  commentario  sacravit  Ben  :  Jonsonius  et 
L.M.D.D.     ISTec. prior  est  mihi  parens  Amico.' 

Such,  then,  was  the  collection  of  printed  books, 
chosen  by  Jonson  and  shared  by  his  friends,  which 
perished  by  fire  at  some  uncertain  date  between  1619 
and  1625.  The  poet  bore  the  misfortune  with  a  stoical 
equanimity  that  reminds  us  of  his  namesake  Samuel. 
He  indulged  his  humour  in  bantering  the  God  of 
Flames  upon  the  banquet  which  might  have  justified 
that  gluttonous  invasion  : — 

Had  I  wrote  treason  here,  or  heresy, 
Imposture,  witchcraft,  charms,  or  blasphemy ; 
I  had  deserved  then  thy  consuming  looks — 
Perhaps  to  have  been  burned  with  my  books. 

Had  a  feast  been  spread  for  Vulcan  composed  of  Tnl- 
muds,   Korans,  Acta    Sanctorum,    Gesta    Romanorum, 

'  *  To  John  Rowe,  his  most  proved  friend  Ben  Jonson  devotes 
this  his  darling  aAd  delight,  Persius,  of  satirists  the  most  learned, 
together  with  a  most  learned  commentary,  and  gives  the  trifling 
present  ag  a  gift.    For  mo,  a  parent  takes  not  rank  before  a  friend.* 


1 66  Ben  JoNSON 

Merlin's  Propliecies,  and  Mysteries  of  tlie  Eosy  Cross, 
Ben  would  not  have  grumbled.  But  no  :  tlie  Fire-king 
fed  upon  good,  wholesome,  humanistic  diet,  and  took 
his  dessert  from  the  ripe  fruits  of  the  poet's  brain  : — 

I  dare  not  say  a  body,  but  some  parts 

There  were  of  search  and  mastery  in  the  arts ; 

All  the  old  Venusine,  in  poetry, 

And  lighted  by  the  Stagyrite,  could  spy, 

Was  there  made  English;  with  a  grammar  too, 

To  teach  some  that  their  nurses  could  not  do, 

The  purity  of  language ;  and,  among 

The  rest,  my  journey  into  Scotland  sung, 

With  all  the  adventures  :  three  boots,  not  afraid 

To  speak  the  fate  of  the  Sicilian  maid 

To  their  own  ladies  ;  and  in  storj^  there 

Of  our  fifth  Henry,  eight  of  his  nine  year; 

Wherein  was  oil,  beside  the  succours  spent. 

Which  noble  Carew,  Cotton,  Selden  lent ; 

And  twice  twelve  years'  stored-up  humanity. 

With  humbler  gleanings  in  divinity, 

After  the  fathers  and  those  wiser  guides 

Whom  faction  had  not  drawn  to  study  sides. 

In  other  words,  what  the  world  lost  of  Jonson's  MSS. 
in  this  conflagration  were  :  (1)  his  exposition  of  the 
'  Ars  Poetica '  of  Horace  and  the  '  Poetics '  of  Aristotle ; 
(2)  an  English  Grammar ;  (3)  the  narrative  in  verse  of 
his  Scotch  journey;  (4)  three  books  upon  the  tale  of 
Proserpine  in  verse ;  (5)  a  nearly-finished  history  of  the 
reign  of  Henry  Y. ;  (6)  the  collections  of  twenty-four 
years  devoted  to  classical  and  theological  studies.  Two 
fragments  from  the~WTeck:  were  •  saved— a  sketch  of  the 
English  Grammar,  and  a  version  of  the  '  Ars  Poetica.' 
The  parts  we"  should  have  valued  most — namely,  the 
Scotch  Journey,  the  Tale  of  Proserpine,  and  the  mis- 
cellaneous notes  on  humane  letters  ^nd  divinity,  have 


Second  Period  of  Manhood  167 

utterly  perished.  How  valuable  the  commonplace  books 
or  miscellanies  may  have  been  is  apparent  from  those 
fragments,,  printed  in  the  folio  of  1641,  which  we  still 
possess  under  the  title  of  '  Explorata,  or  Discoveries.'  • 

I  have  not  much  to  add  upon  this  period  of  Jon  son's 
life.  In  1619  he  went  on  a  visit  to  Oxford,  and  was 
'actually'  admitted  M.A.  of  the  University  in  full 
Convocation.  The  degree  had  previously  been  con- 
ferred on  him.  But  now  he  enjoyed  a  personal  triumph. 
In  1621  he  obtained  the  reversion  of  the  office  of 
Master  of  the  Revels.  This  was  granted  to  him  by 
King  James,  after  the  expiration  of  the  lives  of  Sir  G. 
Buc  and  Sir  J.  Astley.  But  he  did  not  live  to  enjoy  it. 
In  1623  he  produced  that  vigorous,  warm-hearted  poem, 
'To  the  Memory  of  my  beloved  Master  William  Shake- 
speare,' which  has  more  than  once  been  quoted  in  these 
pages.  Through  all  these  years  he  worked  at  Court 
masques,  varying  much  in  poetic  inspiration,  but  show- 
ing no  signs  of  nervous  failure.  At  length,  in  1625, 
he  once  again  essayed  a  venture  on  the  public  stage. 
'  The  Staple  of  News '  was  acted  by  the  King's  Men, 
probably  in  the  winter. 

This  comedy  belongs  to  the  group,  styled  compre- 
hensively by  Dryden  '  his  dotages.'  It  is  not  certain  at 
what  exact  point  in  Jonson's  career  Dryden  conceived 
his  mental  decadence  to  have  begun,  though  I  do  not 
remember  his  citing  any  play  later  than  '  Bartholomew 
Fair '  with  enthusiasm.  Most  critics  will  agree  that 
'  The  Staple  of  News,'  '  The  New  Inn,'  '  The  Magnetic 
Lady,'  and  '  The  Tale  of  a  Tub '  deserve  the  name  of 
'  dotages,'  if  this  is  to  be  applied  to  any  of  Jonson's 
productions;    but  while   admitting  the   inferiority   of 


i68  Ben  JoNSON 

^  The  Devil  is  an  Ass '  to  the  masterpieces  of  its  author's 
maturity,  they  will  probably  exempt  that  play  from  so 
contemptuous  a  verdict. 

In  '  The  Devil  is  an  Ass '  and  '  The  Staple  of  News 
Jonson  directs  his  ^satire  against  City  speculators  and 
bubble  companies.  The  people  of  that  time  seem  to 
have  been  peculiarly  gullible  by  ingenious  schemers, 
who  rested  on  the  favour  of  monopolists  at  Court. 
Meercraft,  in  the  former  comedy,  is  the  prince  of  j)ro- 
jectors,  as  they  were  then  called.  He  bustles  about  the 
town  with  an  accomplice,  carrying  a  sack  like  an  at- 
torney's bag.  This  contains  a  bundle  of  prospectuses 
in  MS.,  neatly  endorsed,  and  so  varied  as  to  suit  all 
tastes  in  turn.  Meeting  with  a  man  of  small  capital, 
he  produces  some  of  the  least  magnificent  of  these 
projects — a  scheme  for  making  gloves  of  dogskin,  or 
for  improving  bottled  ale  and  saving  six  per  cent, 
upon  the  corks,  or  else  for  distilling  wine  from  raisins 
at  a  thumping  profit.  One  dupe  is  tempted  with  a 
project  for  economising  toothpicks,  another  with  a 
proposed  office  for  arranging  disputes  and  establishing 
the  laws  of  duel.  Lady  Tailbush  has  embarked  her 
fortune  in  an  undertaking  to  organise  cosmetics  on  new 
and  larger  principles.  Fitzdottrel,  a  Norfolk  squire,  is 
ready  to  sink  the  purchase-money  of  his  estates  in  a 
speculation  for  recovering  the  fens.  Meercraft  plays 
upon  this  coxcomb's  vanity  by  promising  him  the  title 
of  Duke  of  Drownland.  Able  rogue  as  he  is,  the  pro- 
jector possesses  keen  insight  into  character,  and  adapts 
his  schemes  to  the  foibles  of  his  customers.  Flust,ered 
with  self-importance,  jet  obsequious  in  manner,  he 
assumes  the  pQi^fideritial  tone  of  ^  comriaercial  magnate, 


Second  Period  of  Manhood  169 

The  net  results  of  all  his  projects  have  been  calculated 
to  a  nicety.  He  displays  the  balance-sheet  of  disburse- 
ments and  receipts,  scaled  according  to  plausible  esti- 
mates, and  carried  down  to  the  last  farthing.  No 
inquiry  finds  his  wit  at  fault.  When  difficulties  are 
suggested,  he  smiles  and  overwhelms  the  wavering 
dupe  with  statistics.  His  own  insolvency,  that  patent 
argument  of  his  imposture,  is  explained  away  by  im- 
pudent rhetoric.  Arrested  for  debt,  he  wheedles  his 
creditor  into  dropping  the  prosecution  by  a  glowing  de- 
scription of  his  scheme  for  introducing  forks  into  Eng- 
land, the  patent  for  which  he  proposes  to  set  off  against 
his  liabilities. 

This  character,  like  that  of  Subtle  in  the  ^  Al- 
chemist,' formed  a  very  proper  subject  for  comic  satire. 
Meercrafb  is  no  type  of  transitory  social  humour.  We 
have  plenty  of  such  rogues  among  us  in  the  City  at  the 
present  day,  while  dupes  like  Lady  Tailbush  and  Fitz- 
dottrel  abound.  In  the  under-plot  of  '  The  Staple  of 
News '  Jonson  exposed  another  phase  of  imposture 
working  upon  vulgar  folly,  which  is  also  not  without  its 
parallel  in  our  age.  He  introduces  the  audience  to  the 
interior  of  an  office  which  has  been  established  for  supply- 
ing town  and  country  with  news.^  The  company  has 
correspondents  in  every  part  of  London,  England,  and 
the  Continent.  Posts  are  continually  arriving  with 
political,  commercial,  and  diplomatic  information.  De- 
spatches are  momently  issued,  bearing  the  company's 
signature  and  stamp.     Customers  in  crowds  assail  its 

^  *  See  Epigrams  No.  XCII.  on  the  avidity  for  news  in  London. 
My  friend,  Mr.  H.  F.  Brown,  tells  me  that  at  Venice  there  existed 
a  sort  of  office"  for  the  compilation  Jvud  distribution  of  news. 


lyq  Ben  Jonson 

counter  to  buy  pennyworths  of  the  latest  news.  All 
classes  of  intelligence  are  docketed ;  one  pigeon-hole 
being  reserved  for  Puritans,  another  for  the  Court,  a 
third  for  Roman  Catholics,  a  fourth  for  the  Exchange, 
and  so  on.  Much  show  is  made,  moreover,  of  distin- 
guishing true  from  false,  fresh  from  stale  items.  The 
current  journals,  '  Mercurius  Britannicus  '  and  '  Gallo- 
Belgicus,'  profit  by  this  Staple,  which  provides  them 
with  authenticated  material  at  a  fixed  tariff.  There  will 
in  future  be  no  need  to  scrape  up  gossip  at  the  corners 
of  streets,  to  pen  apocryphal  pamphlets,  or  to  stuff 
country  letters  with  town  lies.  The  Staple  undertakes 
to  simplify,  centralise,  and  co-ordinate  all  sources  oi 
intelligence.  It  is  a  fountain  fed  by  a  thousand  con- 
duit-pipes, condensing  and  distributing  veracious  infor- 
mation. Such  is  the  magnificent  conception  of  this 
great  newsmarket,  presented  to  the  public  by  its  agents. 
But  when  we  read  the  trash  which  it  sends  forth, 
the  puffs,  sensational  paragraphs,  and  scraps  of  highly- 
seasoned  scandal,  on  which  its  customers  expend  their 
pence,  we  discover  that  the  imposing  machine  is  a 
me/re  bubble  floating  on  the  scum  of  popular  credulity, 
If  '  The  Staple  of  News '  had  been  executed  with 
vigour  corresponding  to  the  excellence  of  this  comic 
motive,  it  would  have  ranked  with  the  best  of  Jonson's 
pieces.  But,  as  it  often  happens  in  plays  of  this  species, 
only  the  underplot  is  amusing.  The  substance  of  the 
drama  consists  of  an  allegory,  studied  from  the  '  Plutus ' 
of  Aristophanes.  Lady  Pecunia,  half-person  and  half- 
abstraction,  with  her  attendants.  Statute,  Mortgage^ 
Band,  Rose-wax,  and  Broker,  succeeds  in  being  one  of 
the  most  wearisome  of  dramatic  nondescripts.    Avarice, 


Second  Period  of  Manhood  171 

Prodigality,  and  Prudence,  thinly  disguised  under  the 
masks  of  the  three  Penny  boys,  weary  us  by  their  stiff 
symbolism,  without  conveying  new  lessons  in  the 
morality  of  wealth. 

Earlier  in  his  career  Jonson  might,  perhaps,  have 
animated  even  so  unpromising  a  plot  as  this,  which 
brings  metaphorical  personages  into  the  sphere  of 
realism.  The  sheer  force  of  his  gigantic  intellect  and 
will  was  at  one  time  adequate  to  almost  any  task.  But 
it  is  clear  from  'The  Staple  of  News'  that  what  Marston 
called  a  '  heathy  dryness '  had  begun  to  sterilise  his 
brain ;  and  we  are  not  astonished  to  find  that,  shortly 
after  its  publication,  possibly  in  the  spring  of  1626,  he 
was  laid  low  by  a  stroke  of  paralysis. 


172  ^  Ben  Jonson 


CHAPTER  VII. 

OLD    AGE. 

After  middle  life  Joiison's  liealtli  seems  to  have 
gradually  yielded  to  a  variety  of  infirmities.  He  was  a 
man  of  massive  build,  high  stature,  and,  to  use  his  own 
phrase,  '  ungainly  gait.'  From  his  parents  he  inherited 
scorbutic  affections,  which  impoverished  his  blood,  and 
externally  displayed  their  effects  upon  his  seamed  and 
swollen  features.  As  time  went  on,  and  larger  oppor- 
tunities of  indulgence  offered,  he  succumbed  more  and 
more  to  the  seductions  of  the  table  and  the  wine-cup. 
On  careful  scrutiny  of  the  evidence  before  us,  I  do  not 
believe  that  Jonson  can  be  justly  taxed  with  gluttony  or 
habitual  sottishness.  But  he  led  a  student's  sedentary 
life,  frequented  the  houses  of  the  wealthy,  and  revelled  in 
Homeric  drinking  bouts.  His  own  frank  admissions, 
the  direct  testimony  of  Drummond,  and  a  considerable 
mass  of  tolerably  authentic  tradition,  place  beyond 
doubt  the  fact  that  hejjrank  wdne  to  excess.  His  un- 
healthy constitution  craved  alcoholic  stimulus,  and  his 
social  habits  made  the  recourse  to  it  too  easy.  The 
consequences  of  this  ill-regulated  diet  became  apparent, 
and  Jonson  was  the  first,  wdth  customary  candour,  to 
acknowledge  them.  AVhen  he  sent  Drummond  a  por- 
trait of  himself,  some   humorous  verses   accompanied 


Old  Age  I73 

tlie  gift.    Tlie  poet  feigned  that  his  mistress  had  turned 

a  deaf  ear  to  his  suit,  although  his  words  still  flowed  in 

liquid  numbers  : — 

In  sentence  of  as  subtle  feet, 

As  hath  the  j'oungest  he 
That  sits  in  shadow  of  Apollo's  tree. 

Then  he  turns  to  the  picture  and  discerns  the  cause  of 
her  disdain: — 

Oh  I  but  my  conscious  fears, 

That  fly  my  thoughts  between, 

Tell  me  that  she  hath  seen 

My  hundreds  of  grey  hairs, 

Told  seven  and  forty  years, 
Read  so  much  waist  as  she  can  not  embrace, 
My  mountain  belly,  and  my  rocky  face.     / 

To  the  same  half-humorous,  half-melancholy  lamenta- 
tions over  his  vast  girth  and  personal  unwieldiness  he 
frequently  returns  in  poems  of  occasion.  Sir  William 
Burlase,  the  painter,  had  addressed  him  a  copy  of  verses. 
He  replies : — 

Why,  though  I  seem  of  a  prodigious  waist, 

I  am  not  so  voluminous  and  vast 

But  there  are  lines  wherewith  I  might  be  embraced. 

'Tis  true,  as  my  womb  swells,  so  my  back  stoops, 

And  the  whole  lump  grows  round,  deformed,  and  droops  ; 

But  yet  the  Tun  at  Heidelberg  had  hoops. 

Again  to  one,  Master  Squib,  he  communicates  the  fact 
that  he  is  going  to  be  weighed  for  a  wager,  and  that 
he  only  lacks  two  pounds  of  twenty  stone.  He  artfully 
uses  this  shortcoming  to  beg  the  gift  of  five  pieces  of 
silver  which,  held  within  his  pocket,  as  he  calculates, 
would  make  the  full  weight  up.  The  same  quip  is  used 
to  a  like  purpose  in  the  Epistle  to  my  Lady  Co  veil :  — 


/L 


174  Ben  JoNsoN 

So  you  have  gained  a  servant  and  a  muse  : 

The  first  of  which  I  fear  you  may  refuse ; 

And  you  may  justly,  being  a  tardy,  cold, 

Unprofitable  chattel,  fat  and  old, 

Laden  with  belly,  and  doth  hardly  approach 

His  friends  but  to  break  chairs  or  crack  a  coach. 

His  weight  is  twenty  stone  within  two  pound  ; 

And  that's  made  up  as  doth  the  purse  abound. 

Marry,  the  muse  is  one  can  tread  on  air. 

And  stroke  the  water,  nimble,  chaste  and  fair.   ' ' 

In  other  words,  his  '  too  too  solid  flesh '  still  held  within 
that  ample  round  a  sgrightly  fancy  and  the  spirit  of  a_ 
high-strung  poet.  This  consoling  thought,  that  though 
the  body  labours  like  a  sea-logged  vessel,  yet  the  in- 
tellectual particle,  the. spark  of  divine  inspiration,  sur- 
vives man's  physical  decay,  sustained  Jonson  through 
eleven  declining  years.  We  find  it  often  recurring  in 
his  verse  during  the  decade  upon  which  we  are  now 
entering. 

Manifold  ailments  weighed  down  his  sturdy  nature. 
Palsy-stricken  since  16? 6,  he  was  later  on  attacked  by 
dropsy ;  and  toward  the  close  of  his  life  he  seems  to 
have  been  well-nigh  bedridden.  Owing  to  these  dis- 
abilities he  gradually  lost  hold  upon  the  Court  and  his 
noble  patrons.  James  had  died  in  1625,  more  than  a 
year  before  the  period  which  forms  the  subject  of  this 
chapter.  Charles  Stuart,  as  we  shall  presently  learn, 
proved  himself  a  kind  master  to  his  father's  Laureate. 
But  immediately  after  his  accession  to  the  throne  there 
came  a  hard  time  of  three  or  four  years,  during  which 
Jonson  almost  sank  under  water.  Courtiers  had  some- 
thing else  to  do  than  to  visit  a  declining  playwright, 
when  the  policy  and  personal  habits  of  their  new 
monarch    and    his   Popish   consort   called   for   narrow 


Old  Age  175 

scrutiny.  Then,  too,  the  dictator  of  the  Devil  Tavern 
was  missed  iii  his  old  haunts;  and  though  Jonson 
returned  to  these,  and  burned  by  flashes  with  the  fire 
of  warmer  days,  who  knows  wdiat  apes  and  upstarts, 
creatures  moulded  on  his  pattern,  wielded  spurious 
imitations  of  that  cloud-compelling  wit  while  he  was 
absent  ?  He  therefore  tended  toward  oblivion,  as 
happens  to  all  who  live  outside  the  world  of  their 
acquaintances  and  equals. 

It  is  well  to  notice  that,  during  these  clouded  days, 
Jonson  obtained  the  post  of  Chronologer  to  the  City  of 
London,  upon  the  decease  of  Thomas  Middleton.  The 
office  was  worth  a  salary  of  100  nobles,  and  carried 
with  it  certain'  duties  which  he  very  imperfectly  dis- 
charged. Jonson  accepted  this  service  in  September, 
1628,  regarding  it  apparently  in  the  light  of  a  sinecure. 
Thus  much  I  had  to  say  upon  the  matter  now,  since  it 
will  have  some  slight  significance  in  the  future.  But 
fche  chief  event  of  the  year  1628-29  was  the  representa- 
tion of  a  comedy  called  '  The  New  Inn.'  It  was  put 
upon  the  stage  by  the  King's  Men  in  January,  1629, 
and  '  in  the  technical  language  of  the  Green  Room,  was 
completely  damned,  not  being  heard  to  the  conclusion.' 

The  plot  of  this  comedy  is  so  extravagant  as  to 
account  for  its  failure  on  the  stage.  Lord  Frampul, 
an  eccentric  nobleman  of  wit  and  education,  had  two 
daughters,  Frances  and  Lsetitia,  by  his  wife.  Though 
in  reality  attached  to  Lady  Frampul,  he  treated  her 
with  some  indifference,  and  after  the  birth  of  his  second 
daughter  showed  such  apparent  coldness,  that  the  good 
lady  thought  he  bore  a  grudge  against  her.  She  left 
his  house,  carrying  the  girl  Lastitiaj  and  roamed  the 


176  Ben  J  on  son 

world  in  the  disguise  of  an  Irish  gipsy.  Lord  Franipul, 
conscience-stricken  by  this  evidence  of  his  wife's  grief, 
assumed  the  clothes  and  habits  of  a  tinker,  spent 
several  years  in  vagabondage,  and  finally  settled  in  an 
inn  at  Barnet.  He  christened  this  hostelry  the  Light 
Heart.  After  some  time  his  disguised  wife  reached  the 
Light  Heart  with  LaBtitia,  whom  she  passed  off  as  a  boy 
and  sold  to  her  husband,  the  innkeeper.  Meanwhile 
Frances  grew  up,  took  the  title  of  Lady  Frampul,  and 
enjoyed  the  family  estates.  When  the  play  opens,  Lord 
Frampul  is  still  living  as  the  innkeeper  at  Barnet,  with 
his  own  daughter  Laetitia  dressed  as  a  boy  and  called 
Frank,  and  his  wife  disguised  as  a  drunken  Irish- 
woman, all  under  the  same  roof  and  ignorant  of  their 
respective  relationships.  A  devoted  lover  of  Frances,  the 
younger  Lady  Frampul,  who  is  called  Level,  has  also 
made  the  Light  Heart  his  temporary  place  of  sojourn. 
When  we  have  become  acquainted  with  these  personages, 
Frances  arrives  at  the  inn,  attended  by  two  other  of 
her  suitors,  the  Lords  Latimer  and  Beaufort.  It  is 
her  whim  to  collect  lovers  around  her,  and  to  indulge 
her  humour  by  playing  one  against  the  other  for  sport. 
She  takes  a  fancy  to  the  boy  Frank,  dresses  him  up  as 
a  girl,  and  passes  him  off  upon  her  company  as  one  of 
her  maternal  kinswomen.  Frank  is  henceforth  known 
as  Laetitia  Sylly.  In  the  course  of  the  play  Lord 
Beaufort  falls  in  love  with  this  extremely  puzzling 
person.^     They  are  married  in  a  barn,  and  the  cata- 

*  When  we  remember  that  a  boy  played  the  part  of  Lastitia- 
Frank- LjEtitia  on  the  stage,  the  confusion  is  almost  too  bewildering 
to  disentangle.  He  was  a  boy  personating  a  girl,  disguised  as  a 
boy,  dressed  up  as  a  girl,  married  as  a  girl,  believed  after  the  wed* 


Old  Age  i77 

strophe  is  brought  about  by  the  double  discovery  that 
Lastitia  Sylly  is  the  boy  Frank,  and  that  the  boy  Frank  is 
really  Lastitia  Frampul.  A  recognition  and  warm  recon- 
ciliation take  place  between  Lord  and  Lady  Frampul, 
and  Frances  accepts  the  hand  of  her  servant  Level. 

That  a  young  lady,  believed  to  be  a  baroness  in  her 
own  right,  should  find  her  father  established  as  the 
host  of  a  country  inn,  her  mother  disguised  as  a  tipsy 
Irishwoman  in  the  same  house,  and  her  only  sister 
accepted  as  the  host's  son,  while  father,  mother,  and 
both  daughters  are  unaw^are  of  their  kinship,  until  an 
accident  reveals  the  truth,  is  of  course  preposterous, 
beyond  the  license  of  romance  or  comedy.  Yet,  having 
admitted  so  much,  I  must  record  my  opinion  that  ^J[he 
New  Inn,'  in  many  important  respects,  is  one  of  Jonson's 
best  comedies.  It  ranks  far  above  his  other  dotages. 
In  this  play  Jonson  attempted  something  in  the  roman- 
tic style,  suggested  probably  by  Fletcher's  handling  of 
remote  imaginative  subjects.^     But  he  was  unable  to 

ding  to  be  a  boy,  then  finally  recognised  as  a  girl — remaining  all  the 
while  a  boy  in  his  true  person.    This  beats  Epicoene. 

'  I  must  touch  upon  a  question  regarding  the  authorship  of 
some  passages  in  Tlie  New  Inn.  The  comic  speeches  of  Peck,  the 
ostler,  in  the  third  act  are  repeated  textually  in  Fletcher's  play  of 
Love's  Pilgrimage.  This  comedy  is  supposed  to  have  been  left  un- 
finished at  Fletcher's  death  in  1625,  and  to  have  been  completed  by 
Shirley.  It  was  played  before  1635,  but  was  not  printed  until  1647. 
Tlie  editors  of  Jonson's  works  believe  that  Shirley,  or  whoever 
adapted  Fletcher's  play  for  publication,  borrowed  the  business 
between  Lazaro  and  Diego,  which  he  inserted  in  the  first  act  of 
Love's  Pilgi'image,  from  The  Kcw  Inn;  and  to  this  opinion  I  incline. 
The  other  supposition,  that  Jonson  took  Peck's  speeches  from 
Fletcher,  is,  for  many  reasons,  highly  improbable ;  and,  especially, 
I  may  notice  that  in  Jonson's  defence  of  his  comedy  and  in  the 
attacks  made  upon  it,  we  find  no  allusion  to  any  charge  of  plagi- 

.  N 


L. 


178  Ben  Jonson 

discard  the  literary  habits  of  a  lifetime.  His  solid 
workmanship,  and  the  massiveness  of  intellectual  ma- 
terial in  high-flown  disquisitions  and  discourses  witH 
which  he  has  interpolated  scenes  of  broad  farce,  do  not 
suit  the  true  romantic  manner.  The  characters,  more- 
over, are  defined  by  deep  and  trenchant  lines,  inappli- 
cable to  airy  creatures  of  fantastic  fable. 

Several  of  these  characters,  however,  are  in  them- 
selves excellent.  Lovel  and  the  Host,  for  instance, 
exhibit  in  their  first  interview  a  full  and  warm  humanity 
— the  one  mellow  and  hundorous,  the  other  chivalrous 
and  enthusiastic.  Into  Level's  mouth  Jonson  has  put 
some  of  the  finest  poetry  which  survives  from  the 
Jacobean  age  of  our  drama.  When  I  shall  have  dealt 
with  the  untoward  fate  of  the  comedy,  and  described 
the  indignation  which  this  roused  in  its  author's  breast, 
I  mean  to  resume  Lovel's  speeches  upon  love  and 
courage.  At  present  it  suffices  to  remark  that  these 
passages  of  eloquent  blank-verse,  weighty  as  they  are 
with  thought,  breathe  fervid  intellectual  passion — an 
enthusiasm  for  spiritual  beauty  which  we  are  surprised 
to  find  still  burning  in  the  aged  poet's  brain.  Charles 
Lamb,  after  quoting  the  finest  of  Lovel's  declamations, 
adds  :  '  These  and  the  preceding  extract  may  serve  to 
show  the  poetical  fancy  and  elegance  of  mind  of  the 
supposed  rugged  old  bard.' 

Frances,  the  younger  Lady  Frampul,  again,  is 
what  Jonson  has  rarely  attempted  to  pc^tray — a  real 
woman,  revealing  her  woman's  nature  no  less  by  phanta- 
sies and  waywardnesses  than  by  high  spirit  and  generous 

arism.    The  theory  that  The  New  Inn  was  damned  because  the 
plagiarism  was  recognised  seems  to  me  on  this  account  untenable. 


Old  Age  179 

self-abandonment  to  feeling.  This  lady,  at  first  so 
reckless  in  her  coqnetry,  then  so  impulsive  in  her 
passion,  is  no  less  admirable  than  her  loyal  golden- 
mouthed  adorer.  Lord  Beaufort  serves  as  a  useful  foil  to 
the  exalted  chivalry  of  Lovel ;  the  young  man  yielding  to 
the  humour  of  a  sudden  inclination,  and  fitly  wedded 
for  comic  purpose  to  Frances  FrampuVs  sister.  All  of 
these  fantastical  personages  strike  us  rather  as  the 
creatures  of  an  April  poet's  fancy  than  as  the  laboured 
products  of  a  palsy-stricken  playwright's  craftsmanship. 
rTlie  ISTew  Inn'  was  printed  two  years  after  its 
appearance,  with  this  angry  annotation  on  the  title- 
page  :  '  As  it  was  never  acted,  but  most  negligently 
played  by  some,  The  King's  Servants ;  and  more 
squeamishly  beheld  and  censured  by  others.  The  King's 
Subjects.'  The  Epilogue,  written  apparently  for  the 
first  performance,  describes  the  poet'^  state  of  health  in 
moving  termsji^---^ 

'  /      If  you  expect  more  than  you  had  to-night, 

The  maker  is  sick  and  sad.     But  do  him  right ;  ' 

He  meant  to  please  you :  for  he  sent  things  fit,' 

In  all  the  numbers  both  of  sense  and  wit, 

If  they  have  not  miscarried  I     If  they  have, 

All  that  his  faint  and  faltering  tongue  doth  crave, 

Is  that  you  not  impute  it  to  his  brain  ; 

That's  yet  unhurt,  although,  set  round  with  pain, 

It  cannot  long  hold  out.    All  strength  must  yield  ; 

Yet  judgment  would  the  last  be  in  the  field. 

With  a  true  poet.      / 

The  last  lines  hint  at  neglect  by  the  Court : — 

And  had  he  lived  the  care  of  king  and  queen, 
'   His  art  in  something  more  yet  had  been  seen ; 
But  mayors  and  shrieves  may  yearly  fill  the  stage  : 
A  king's  or  poet's  birth  doth  ask  an  age. 

N  2 


i8d  Ben  JoNsoN 

GifFord  supposes  that  this  epilogue  reached  the  ears  of 
Charles ;  yet  it  was  not  spoken  on  the  stage  in  1629  nor 
printed  till  1631.  Therefore,  if  this  really  was  the  case, 
the  verses  must  have  been  submitted  to  his  Majesty 
in  MS.  At  any  rate,  the  King  this  year  bestowed  a 
present  of  lOOZ.  on  Jonson,  and  in  1630  he  raised  his 
pension  to  the  sum  of  lOOZ.,  adding  the  famous  annual 
present  of  a  tierce  of  Canary  wine.  We  still  possess  '  the 
Humble  Petition  of  poor  Ben  to  the  best  of  monarchs, 
masters,  men.  King  Charles,'  in  which  he  prayed  that 
the  marks  granted  by  James  might  be  expanded  into 
pounds.  A  series  of  short  poems  following  close  upon 
Charles'  act  of  liberality  bespeak  the  poet's  gratitude. 
-"l  The  failure  of  this  comedy  inspired  Jonson  with  one 
oThis  most  vigorous  lyric  pieces.  It  is  prefaced  with  a 
few  words  of  explanation :  '  The  just  indignation  the 
aui  h  )r  took  at  the  vulgar  censure  of  his  play  by  some  ^ 
malicious  spectators,  begat  this  following  oji@_  to  himself.' 
Omitting  two  stanzas  which  describe  the  decadence  of 
the  drama,  and  the  last,  which  compliments  the  King, 
I  will  present  the  remaining  half  of  this  noble  composi- 
tion to  my  readers,  it  being  in  my  opinion  an  almost 
perfect  specimen  of  rhetoric  and  rhythmical  structure 
exactly  suited  to  a  strain  of  vehement  emotion. 

Ccme,  leave  the  loathed  stage, 

And  the  more  loathsome  age  ; 
Where  pride  and  impudence,  in  faction  knit, 

Usurp  the  chair  of  wit ! 
Indicting  and  arraigning  every  day 
Something  they  call  a  play. 

Let  their  fastidious,  vain 

Commission  of  the  brain 
Run  on  and  rage,  sweat,  censure,  and  condemn  ; 
They  were  not  made  for  thee,  less  thou  for  them. 


Old  Acn  i8i 

Say  that  thou  pour'st  them  wheat, 

And  they  will  acorns  eat  ; 
'Twere  simple  fury  still  thy  sell:  to  waste 

On  such' as  have  no  taste  1 
To  offer  them  a  surfeit  of  pure  bread. 
Whose  appetites  are  dead ! 

No,  give  them  grains  their  fill, 

Husks,  draff  to  drink  and  swill : 
If  they  love  lees,  and  leave  the  lusty  wine, 
Envy  them  not,  their  palate's  with  the  swine. 

Leave  things  so  prostitute. 

And  take  the  Alcaic  lute ; 
Or  thine  own  Horace,  or  Anacreon's  lyre ; 

Warm  thee  by  Pindar's  fire  : 
And  though  thy  nerves  be  shrunk,-  and  blocd  be  cold 
Ere  years  have  made  thee  old, 

Strike  that  disdainful  heat 

Throughout,  to  their  defeat, 
As  curious  fools,  and  envious  of  thy  strain, 
May  blushing  swear  no  palsy's  in  thy  brain. 

The  trumpet-note  of  defiance  sounded  in  this  poem 
rouse3  numerous  retorts  from  writers  of  the  day.  One 
of  these,  composed  by  Owen  Feltham  in  the  same  metre 
as  the  original,  was  not  deficient  in  good  sense  and 
candid  criticism : — 

Come,  leave  this  saucy  way 
Of  baiting  those  that  pay 
Dear  for  the  sight  of  your  declining  wit : 

'Tis  known  it  is  not  fit 
That  a  sale  poet,  just  contempt  once  thrown. 
Should  cry  up  thus  his  own. 

•  • 

*Tis  known  you  can  do  well. 

And  that  you  do  excell 
As  a  Translator.     But  when  things  require 

A  genius  and  a  fire 
N6t  kindled  heretofore  by  others'  pains : — 


1 82  Ben  JoNSoN 

Next  he  tells  Ben  how  flat  and  stupid  were  his  '  Jug, 
Pierce,  Peck,  Fly,'  and  all  his  *  jests  so  nominal,'  con- 
demns the  absurd  plot  of  '  The  New  Inn,'  and  points 
out  the  impropriety  of  Lovel's  scholastic  dissertations 
in  a  play  of  that  type.  Though  worded  unkindly,  the 
rebuke  was  not  wanting  in  justice. 

Lovel,  the  principal  male  personage  of  '  The  New 
Inn,'  deserves,  as  I  have  said  above,  more  than  a  merely 
superficial  notice.  He  is  the  type  of  the  chivalrous  and 
poetic  lover,  as  Jonson  conceived  that  type,  modified 
by  philosophical  and  humanistic  culture.  He  out-Birons 
Biron  in  his  raptures : — 

There  is  no  life  on  earth,  but  being  in  love  I 
There  are  no  studies,  no  delights,  no  business, 
No  intercourse,  or  trade  of  sense  or  soul, 
But  what  is  love  !     I  was  the  laziest  creature, 
The  most  unprofitable  soul  of  nothing, 
The  veriest  drone,  and  slept  away  my  life 
Beyond  the  dormouse,  till  I  was  in  love  I 
And  now  I  can  outwake  the  nightingale, 
Out- watch  an  usurer,  and  out- walk  him  too  ; 
Stalk  like  a  ghost,  that  haunted  'bout  a  treasure. 
And  all  that  phant'sied  treasure,  it  is  love. 

Lovel  has  adored  Frances,  the  younger  Lady  Frampul, 
for  a  long  time,  but  has  forborne  to  express  his  passion 
or  to  urge  his  suit  because  the  son  of  his  old  sire  in 
chivalry  has  some  pretension  to  her  hand : — 

Did  you  e'er  know,  or  hear  of  the  Lord  Beaufort, 
Who  served  so  bravely  in  France  1     I  was  his  page, 
And  ere  he  died,  his  friend  :  I  followed  him, 
First  in  the  wars,  and  in  the  times  of  peace 
I  waited  on  his  studies ;  whicii  were  right. 
He  had  no  Arthurs,  nor  no  Kosicleers, 
No  Knights  o'  the  Sun,  nor  Amadis  de  Gauls, 
Primalions,  Pantagruels,  public  nothings ; 


Old  Age  183 

But  great  Achilles,  Agamemnon's  acts, 

Sage  Nestor's  counsels,  and  Ulysses'  slights, 

Tydides'  fortitude,  as  Homer  wrought  them 

In  his  immortal  phantasy,  for  examples 

Of  the  heroic  virtue. 

He  gave  me  first  my  breeding,  I  acknowledge, 

Then  showered  his  bounties  on  me  like  the  Hours, 

That  open-handed  sit  upon  the  clouds. 

And  press  the  liberality  of  heaven 

Down  to  the  laps  of  thankful  men  !     But  then 

The  trust  committed  to  me  at  his  death, 

Was  above  all,  and  left  so  strong  a  tie 

On  all  my  power  as  time  shall  not  dissolve, 

Till  it  dissolve  itself  and  bury  all — 

The  care  of  his  brave  heir  and  only  son ; 

Who  being  a  virtuous,  sweet,  young,  hopeful  lord, 

Hath  cast  his  first  affections  on  this  lady. 

And  though  I  know,  and  may  presume  her  such 

As,  out  of  humour,  will  return  no  love  ;  ' 

And  therefore  might  indifferently  be  made 

The  courting-stock  for  all  to  practise  on, 

As  she  doth  practise  on  all  us  to  scorn : 

Yet,  out  of  a  religion  to  my  charge, 

And  debt  professed,  I  have  made  a  self-decree, 

Ne'er  to  express  my  person,  though  my  passion 

Burn  me  to  cinders. 

Chance  determines  that  he  shall  have  the  opportunity 
of  wooing  his  mistress,  even  against  his  will.  Lovel  is 
moping  in  his  chamber  at  the  inn,  when  Frances  Prampul 
arrives  with  her  train  of  servants  and  suitors.  At  first/ 
from  motives  of  mere  idle  coquetry,  she  sends  to  bid 
him  join  her  party  in  their  sports.  He  obeys  un- 
willingly, and  is  appointed  by  the  mistress  of  the  revels 
to  discourse  on  love  and  valour.  Beaufort,  the  youth 
in  whose  favour  he  has  waived  his  rights  of  courtship, 
is  also  present  in  attendance  on  the  lady.  His  frank, 
light-hearted  sensuousness  forms  an  excellent  contrast 


184  Ben  JoNSON 

to  Lovel's  ponderous  but  noble  dissertations.  When, 
for  instance,  Lovel  has  explained  love's  nature  in  terms 
of  Platonic  mysticism,  Beaufort  interrupts : — 

I  relish  not  these  philosophical  feasts ; 

Give  me  a  banquet  of  sense,  like  that  of  Ovid. 

But  Lovel  proceeds  at  the  same  high,  pitch : — 
They  are  the  earthly,  lower  forms  of  lovers. 
Are  only  taken  with  what  strikes  the  senses ; 
And  love  by  that  loose  scale.    Although  I  grant 
We  like  what's  fair  and  graceful  in  an  object, 
And,  true,  would  use  it  in  the  all  we  tend  to 
Both  of  our  civil  and  domestic  deeds  ; 
In  ordering  of  an  army,  in  our  style. 
Apparel,  gesture,  building,  or  what  not: 
All  arts  and  actions  do  affect  their  beauty. 
But  put  the  case,  in  travel  I  may  meet 
Some  gorgeous  structure,  a  brave  frontispiece, 
Shall  I  stay  captive  in  the  outer  court, 
Surprised  with  that,  and  not  advance  to  know 
Who  dv/ells  there  and  inhabiteth  the  housed?    - 
There  is  my  friendship  to  be  made,  within. 
With  what  can  love  me  again :  not  with  the  walls, 
Doors,  windows,  architraves,  the  frieze  and  cornice. 
My  end  is  lost  in  loving  of  a  face, 
An  eye,  lip,  nose,  hand,  foot,  or  other  part. 
Whose  all  is  but  a  statue,  if  the  mind 
Move  not,  which  only  can  make  the  return. 
The  end  of  love  is  to  have  two  made  one  , 

In  w411  and  in  affection,  that  the  minds 
Be  first  inoculated,  not  the  bodies. 

To  these  fine  sentiments,  Beaufort,  lying  in  Laetitia's 

lap,  cries : — 

Give  me  the  body,  if  it  be  a  good  one. 

Meanwhile  Lovel's  sober  eloquence  wins  on  Frances ; 

and,  as  "  he   continues   speaking,  her   froward   temper 

gradually  yields  to  gentle  affections : — 
How  am  T  changed  !     By  what  alchemy 
Of  love,  or  language,  am  I  thus  translated  ? 


Old  Age  185 

When  he  has  delivered  his  oration,  she  exclaims  : — 

O  speak,  and  speak  for  ever ;  let  mine  ear 
Ijc  feasted  still  and  filled  with  this  banquet  1 
No  sense  can  ever  surfeit  on  such  truth  ! 
It  is  the  marrow  of  all  lovers'  tenets. 

Her  friends  cackle  and  gossip  round  her ;  but  she  sits 
entranced,  soliloquising  to  herself: — 

Where  have  I  lived,  in  heresy,  so  long, 
Out  of  the  congregation  of  Love, 
And  stood  irregular,  by  all  his  canons  ? 

What  penance  shall  I  do  to  be  received, 
And  reconciled  to  the  church  of  Love  ? 
Go  on  procession,  barefoot,  to  his  image. 
And  say  some  hundred  penitential  verses, 
There,  cut  of  Chaucer's  Troilus  and  Cressid? 

Carrying  on  the  same  strain  of  hyperbolical  repentance, 
she  exclaims  : — 

Love  and  his  mother, 

I'll  build  them  several  churches,  shrines,  and  altars, 

And  overhead  I'll  have  in  the  glass  windows 

The  story  of  this  day  be  painted  round, 

For  the  poor  laity  of  love  to  read.  ' 

Some  of  these  speeches  by  the  Lady  Frarapul  are  uttered 
aside ;  others,  overheard,  procure  for  her  a  further  cha- 
racter for  irony  and  waywardness.  Least  of  all  does 
her  lover  suppose  that  he  has  been  so  clever  as  to  win 
her  heart.  And  when  in  the  next  act  he  defends  the 
thesis  of  valour,  it  is  with  no  belief  in  his  good  fortune. 
On  the  second  point  it  may  be  said  that  he  declaims  to 
even  better  purpose  : — 

The  things  true  valour's  exercised  about, 
Are  povert}^,  restraint,  captivity. 
Banishment,  loss  of  children,  long  disease ; 
The  least  is  death. 


1 86  Ben  JoNSON 

That  man  is  not  valiant  who  is  merely  ready  to  fight  or 
to  die : — 

The  manner  of  it 

Renders  a  man  himself,    A  valiant  man 

Ought  not  to  midergo,  or  tempt  a  danger, 

But  worthily,  and  by  selected  ways  : 

He  undertakes  with  reason,  not  by  chance. 

As  in  the  case  of  love,  so  also  in  that  of  courage,  Jonson 
sets  himself  to  prove  that  reason  and  the  intellectual 
part  of  man  elicit  virtue  from  mere  appetite  or  humour. 
His  ideal  of  manliness  is  that  expressed  by  Caesar  in 
^  The  Poetaster  ' ;  his  knight  is  one  who — 

Can  becalm 
All  sea  of  humour  with  the  marble  trident 
Of  his  strong  spirit. 

I  have  dwelt  at  some  length  upon  this  comedy,  partly 
because  of  its  strangeness,  but  also  because  it  exhibits 
Jonson  in  a  somewhat  unaccustomed  light.  To  match 
Level's  rhapsody  on  love  we  must  go  back  to  the 
splendid  declamation  upon  poetry  in  the  first  version  of 
'  Every  Man  in  his  Humour.'  Nor,  on  the  whole,  is 
any  character  in  Jonson's  comedies  so  worthy  of  respect 
and  beautifully  toned  as  this  one. 

As  years  advanced,  troubles  gathered  round  Ben 
Jonson.  He  had  never  been  provident ;  and  now  that 
sickness  and  old  age  exhausted  his  mental  powers,  he 
was  entirely  dependent  on  his  pension  and  the  liberality 
of  friends.  In  the  autumn  of  1631  the  City  of  London 
passed  a  resolution  to  the  effect  that  his  salary  as 
Chronologer  should  be  stopped  until  he  presented 
*  some  fruits  of  his  labour  in  that  his  place.'  A  letter 
announcing   their  decision  to  his   friend,  the  Earl  of 


Old  Age,  187 

Newcastle,  contains  this  characteristic  sentence  :  '  Yes- 
terday the  barbarous  Court  of  Aldermen  have  with- 
drawn their  chandlerly  pension  for  verjuice  and  mustard, 
33L  66*.  Sc?.'  The  loss  of  this  pension  was  soon  after- 
wards followed  by  another  stroke  of  ill-fortune.  At  the 
New  Year's  festivities  of  1632,  the  King's  masque, 
which  had  been  usually  supplied  by  Jonson,  was  ordered 
from  Mr.  Aurelian  Townsend.  Thus  he  lost  the  gratuity 
of  some  40L  which  the  Court  paid  its  poet  on  these 
occasions.  We  know  from  a  private  letter  written  to 
Sir  John  Puckering  by  a  Mr.  Pory  that  Ben  Jonson 
was  'for  this  time  discarded  by  reason  of  the  pre- 
dominant power  of  his  antagonist,  Inigo  Jones.'  They 
had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  working  together  on 
the  Whitehall  entertainments,  Jonson  providing  the 
libretto  and  Jones  the  invention  of  stage-machinery. 
But  the  relations  between  the  two  artists  were  never 
cordial.  It  is  impossible  that  Jones  should  have  for- 
given a  certain  remark  made  by  the  free-spoken  poet 
to  Prince  Charles,  nor  was  he  the  man  to  brook  Jonson's 
assumption  of  superiority  in  their  joint  undertakings. 
It  appears,  however,  that  he  waited  until  the  Laureate 
fell  ill  and  out  of  sight,  in  order  to  take  his  revenge. 
The  immediate  occasion  of  his  declared  hostility  was 
Jonson's  publication  of  the  masque  '  Chloridia  'in  1630, 
w^hen  the  names  of  '  the  inventors  Ben  Jonson,  Inigo 
Jones '  appeared  upon  the  title-page.  Mr.  Pory's  letter 
informs  us  that  the  architect  was  angry  with  the  poet 
'  for  putting  his  own  name  before  his  in  the  title-page, 
which  Ben  Jonson  has  made  the  subject  of  a  bitter 
satire  or  two  against  Inigo.'  The  satires  in  question 
may  still  be  read  under  the  titles  of  '  An  Expostulation 


1 88  Ben  JoNSON 

with  Inigo  Jones/  &c.  They  prove  that  Jonson,  even 
on  a  sick-bed,  retained  the  gall  and  venom  of  his  earlier 
controversies ;  but  their  artistic  merit  is  small. 

No  department  of  literary  history  is  more  tedious 
and  repulsive  than  that  which  belongs  to  the  quarrels  of 
authors  and  their  kind.  I  shall,  therefore,  break  the 
thread  of  chronological  development  in  order  to  have  done 
with  this  ignoble  subject.  In  1633  Jonson  gave  his 
comedy  '  The  Tale  of  a  Tub '  to  the  stage,  with  a  savagely 
satirical  caricature  of  Inigo  Jones  under  the  transparent 
pseudonym  of  Vitruvius  Hoop.  This  part  was  cut  out 
by  authority,  and  in  the  comedy  as  we  possess  it  only  a 
faint  trace  of  the  satire  remains.  The  office-book  of  the 
Master  of  the  Eevels,  whose  duty  it  was  to  license  ]3lays 
for  acting,  contains  an  entry  to  the  effect  that :  '  Vitru- 
vius Hoop's  part  [was]  wholly  struck  out,  and  the  motion 
of  a  tub,  by  command  from  my  Lord  Chamberlain ;  ex- 
ceptions being  taken  against  it  by  Inigo  Jones,  surveyor 
of  the  King's  Works,  as  a  personal  injury  unto  him.' 
There  is  considerable  uncertainty  as  to  the  date  when 
^  The  Tale  of  a  Tub '  was  composed.  This  comedy  has 
been  referred  to  an  early  period  of  Jonson's  career  as 
playwright,  and  has  also  been  claimed  as  one  of  his 
dotages.  But,  considering  how  slight  its  merits  are, 
the  problem  of  its  date  of  composition,  though  interest- 
ing to  the  curious  in  style  and  to  masters  of  anti- 
quarian research,  may  be  omitted  here.  No  student 
who  wishes  to  see  Jonson  at  his  best  need  take  the 
pains  to  travel  through  its  labyrinth  of  errors.  Even 
Gifford  admits  that  '  The  Tale  of  a  Tub '  '  has  no  great 
pretensions  to  notice,'  while  less  indulgent  critics  will 
not  fail  to  call  it  an  uninteresting  play.     All  that  was 


Old  Age  189 

mechanical  in  Jonson's  plot-construction,  all  that  was 
awkward  in  his  treatment  of  comic  incident,  and  super- 
ficial in  his  delineation  of  character,  is  exemplified  in 
this  which  I  should  still  desire  to  regard  as  the  latest 
product  of  his  enfeebled  brain. 

The  chief  event  of  1632  was  the  representation  of 
IThe  Magnetic  Lady  '  by  the  King's  Men.  This  play 
has  a  certain  value  in  the  history  of  Jonson's  life,  inas- 
much as  he  declared  it  to  be  the  last  of  his  cycle  of 
comedies  upon  the  humours.  Having  begun  with 
'  Every  Man  in  his  Humour '  and  '  Every  Man  out  of 
his  Humour,'  he  styled  '  The  Magnetic  Lady  '  by  a  sub- 
title, '  The  Humours  Reconciled.'  To  note  so  much  is 
sufficient.  No  one  can  be  now  expected  to  take  interest 
in  the  plot  of  this  spasmodically  wooden  comedy.  It 
exhibits,  indeed,  the  method  of  the  erewhile  potent 
puppet-maker,  but  the  vein  of  humour  is  exhausted, 
and  the  breath  of  mental  life  has  passed  from  its  stiff 
personages.  A  certain  mechanical  command  of  theatri- 
cal resources  seems  to  have  survived  all  intellectual 
decline  in  Jonson's  genius ;  and  of  this  faculty  '  The 
Magnetic  Lady '  exhibits  sufficient  to  make  its  failure 
as  a  work  of  art  well-nigh  pathetic. 

The  destitution  to  which  Jonson  was  now  reduced 
awoke  the  interest  of  many  old  friends,  and  among  these 
the  Earl  (afterwards  Duke)  of  Newcastle  proved  him- 
self a  generous  patron.  We  possess  some  letters  from 
the  poet  to  that  nobleman,  one  of  which  is  touching  in 
its  manly  appeal  for  help  :  '  I  send  no  borrowing  epistle 
to  provoke  your  lordship,  for  I  have  neither  fortune  to 
repay,  nor  security  to  engage  that  will  be  taken ;  but  I 
make  a  most  humble  petition  to  your  lordship's  bounty  to 


1 90  Ben  Jonson 

succour  my  present  necessities  this  good  time  of  Easter, 
and  it  shall  conclude  all  begging  requests  hereafter  on 
the  behalf  of  your  truest  beadsman  and  most  thankful 
servant,  B.  J.'  Two  entertainments,  in  the  years  1633 
and  1634,  were  produced  for  the  earl  upon  the  occasion 
of  royal  visits  to  Welbeck  and  Bolsover.  It  appears 
that  Charles,  possibly  at  Lord  Newcastle's  request, 
commanded  the  City  to  continue  their  payment  of  100 
nobles  to  Jonson  as  Chronologer  in  the  autumn  of  1634. 

From  this  date  till  August  6,  1637,  when  Jonson 
died,  we  know  but  little  of  his  life  and  doings.  A  few 
verses  of  occasion,  including  a  'New  Year's  Gift'  to 
King  Charles  upon  the  opening  of  the  year  1634-5, 
were  the  last  fruits  of  his  pen ;  and  the  remaining 
thirty-two  months  of  his  existence  were  probably  passed 
in  the  gloom  of  a  sick  bed-chamber.  There  is  not, 
however,  any  reason  to  suppose  that  he  was  in  actual 
need,  or  that  the  kind  offices  of  friends  were  wanting. 
The  enthusiastic  elegies  by  several  authors,  published 
under  the  title  of  '  Jonsonus  Yirbius,'  six  months  after 
his  decease,  prove  that  up  to  the  very  end  he  must  have 
been  a  living  celebrity  and  an  honoured  person  in  his 
generation.  When  I  pass  to  consider  his  position  of  in- 
fluence in  the  seventeenth  century,  I  shall  revert  to  these 
encomiastic  poems.  The  next  paragraphs  of  this  chapter 
must  be  devoted  to  the  problem  of  a  dramatic  pastoral 
which,  was  found  among  Jonson's  papers  after  his  death. 

It  has  been  generally  taken  for  granted  that  '  The 
Sad  Shepherd'  was  composed  by  Jonson  in  1637 — that 
'  is  to  say,  a  few  months  before  his  death.     The  assump- 
tion rests  upon  a  line  in  the  prologue  : — 

He  that  hath  feasted  yoii  these  forty  years : 


Old  Age  191 

which  carries  the  author's  career  as  playwright  back  to 
its  right  date  of  1597.  Yet  there  are  grave  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  our  supposing  that  Jonson's  ^  bed-rid 
muse  '  was  capable  of  so  vigorous  an  effort.  This 
pastoral,  as  we  possess  it,  consists  of  a  prologue,  two 
acts,  and  part  of  a  third,  together  with  the  carefully 
developed  arguments  for  the  first  three  acts,  from  which 
it  appears  that  the  whole  play  would  have  been  com- 
posed of  five  acts.  At  Hawthornden  he  told  Drummond 
that  he  had  '  a  pastoral  entitled  "  The  May  Lord,'' '  and 
added  some  details  regarding  its  personages.  It  is 
tempting  to  conjecture  that  '  The  May  Lord '  and  '  The 
Sad  Shepherd '  were  one  and  the  same  play,  upon  the 
alteration  of  which,  or  its  completion  for  the  stage, 
Jonson  was  working  when  death  cut  short  his  thread. 
Had  '  The  May  Lord '  been  finished  when  he  went  to 
Scotland  in  1618,  it  seems  singular  that  he  should  not 
have  brought  it  before  the  public  during  the  period  of 
his  attempts  to  earn  money  late  in  life  by  play-writing. 
Had  it  been  destroyed  together  with  other  MSS.  in  the 
burning  of  his  library,  it  seems  no  less  strange  that  he 
should  not  have  mentioned  it  in  '  An  Execration  upon 
Vulcan.'  I  have  sometimes  entertained  the  thought  that 
the  double  difficulty  involved  in  either  identifying  '  The 
Sad  Shepherd '  with  the  completed,  but  now  lost,  '  May 
Lord,'  or  in  supposing  '  The  Sad  Shepherd  '  to  have  been 
the  product  of  Jonson's  latest  and  disease-ruined  old 
age,  might  be  explained  by  his  habit  of  composing  first 
in  prose.  Upon  this  theory  '  The  May  Lord '  would 
have  been  digested  throughout  in  prose  before  1618, 
but  only  versified  up  to  the  point  where  it  now  stops 
abruptly.     In    1637  the   bed-ridden  poet  would  have 


192  Ben  Jonson 

resumed  his  work  of  versification,  and  have  begun  by 
altering  a  line  in  the  prologue  to  suit  the  later  date. 
The  change  of  title  is  a  small  matter ;  and  if  some  of 
the  names  mentioned  by  Jonson  to  Drummond,  as  Ethra 
and  Mogibel,  do  not  appear  in  '  The  Sad  Shepherd,'  this 
again  is  a  trifle  in  comparison  with  the  critical  impos- 
sibility of  believing  that  a  paralysed,  bed-ridden  poet, 
who  had  been  silent  for  two  whole  years,  should  sud- 
denly have  conceived  and  partly  executed  a  masterpiece 
worthy  of  his  prime.  The  hypothesis  I  have  advanced 
will  also  serve  to  explain  the  imperfection  of  the  piece, 
as  we  possess  it.  Those  persons  into  whose  hands  the 
MS.  fell,  and  who  prepared  it  for  publication,  may  have 
thought  it  wortli  while  to  print  the  versified  fragment 
so  far  as  it  went,  together  with  the  argument  of  the 
first  three  acts,  not  sending  the  prose  version  of  the 
whole  drama  to  press.  This  method  of  dealing  with 
MS.  would  have  been  natural  in  that  age,  which  was 
far  less  scrupulous  in  the  discharge  of  literary  duties 
than  ours.  It  might  even  have  been  justified  if  Jonson, 
in  his  redaction  of  1637,  had  introduced  alterations  of 
names  and  minor  details,  causing  the  prose  version 
to  disagree  with  the  versified  fragment.  Of  course,  a 
careful  editor  in  our  days  would  print  bpth  prose  and 
verse  in  exienso ;  but  such  accuracy  was  by  no  means  in 
the  manner  of  the  Jacobean  period. 

Whatever  opinion  may  be  formed  upon  this  ques- 
tion of  its .  composition,  all  will  agree  that  '  The  Sad 
Shepherd'  illustrates  Jonson's  qualities  at  their  best. 
It  is  distinguished  by  powerful  brain-work  in  the 
weaving  of  the  plot,  by  sharply-indented  character- 
^elineationj^  and  by  learning,  judiciouslyj  if  somewhat 


Old  Age  X93 

ponderously, "applied.  But  there  is  more  tlian  that  to 
notrce.  What  Gifford  styles  a  '  bright  and  sunny  ray  ' 
of  poetry,  genuine  though  thin,  pervades  it.  The  choice 
of  the  names  ^glamour  and  Earine  for  the  rustic  hero 
and  heroine  was  happy.  The  latter  gives  a  grace  to 
every  verse  in  which  we  find  it : — 

But  she, 
As  chaste  as  was  her  name,  Earine, 
Died  undeflowered. 

Notice,  too,  how  it  introduces  harmony  into  the  discord 

of  her  lover's  sorrow  : — 

Earine, 
Who  had  her  very  being  and  her  name 
With  the  first  knots  or  buddings  of  the  spring, 
Born  with  the  primrose  or  the  violet 
Or  earliest  roses  blown. 

I  need  hardly  remind  my  readers  that,  in  Greek,  Earine 
means  the  maiden  of  the  spring.  Jonson,  if  I  am 
right,  borrowed  this  name  from  one  of  Martial's  epi- 
grams. The  opening  lines  of  the  pastoral,  in  which  the 
Sad  Shepherd  tracks  his  mistress  by  the  flowers  which 
sprang  upon  her  footsteps,  have  the  same  charm  of 
vernal  melody  : — 

Here  was  she  wont  to  go  I  and  herei    and  here  I 

Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow : 

The  world  may  find  the  spring  by  following  her ; 

For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left. 

Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass. 

Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk  I 

But  like  the  soft  west  wind  she  shot  along, 

And  where  she  went,  the  flowers  took  thickest  root, 

As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  amorous  foot. 

But  with  these  quotations  we  have  rifled  nearly  all  the 
honey  of  the  -  pastoral  romance.     It  is  to  be  regretted 

0 


194  Ben  JoNSON 

that  such  beauties  should  be  mingled  with  bad  taste 

and   pedantry.      ^glamour   draws   a    picture    of  the 

drowned  Earine's  corpse  cast  up  by  the  waves,  '  tainted 

as  themselves,  all  pale  and  bloodless.'    Then  he  declares 

that  he  will — 

Make  them  mad 
To  see  how  I  will  hug  it  in  mine  arms  1 
And  hang  upon  her  looks,  dwell  on  her  eyes, 
Feed  round  about  her  lips,  and  eat  her  kisses. 
Suck  oft  her  drowned  flesh  I 

Surely  a  shrimp  or  a  lobster  might  express  its  passion 
after  this  wise  !  So  much  for  the  lapses  into  bad  taste. 
For  the  pedantry,  we  have  only  to  listen  to  an  old 
shepherd  of  Sherwood  discoursing  familiarly  of — ■ 

What  they  call 
The  lovers'  scriptures,  Heliodores  or  Tatii, 
Longi,  Eustathii,  Prodromi. 

A  couple  at  least  of  these  names  would  puzzle  an  Ire- 
land or  Craven  scholar. 

Such  blemishes  might  have  been  passed  over  had 
not  critics  like  GifFord  and  Hallam  chosen  to  praise 
*  The  Sad  Shepherd '  for  its  propriety.  The  latter 
prefers  it  to  Fletcher's  '  Faithful  Shepherdess/  It  is, 
indeed,  true  that  the  plot  is  far  more  regular,  well-knit, 
and  varied  than  that  of  Fletcher's  pastoral.  Terms  of 
venery  and  allusions  to  rural  toils  and  sports  are  intro- 
duced with  careful  realism,  and  it  is  probable  that  the 
play  would  act  wq\\,  Sone  of  these  qualifications  are 
to  be  found  in  '  The  Faithful  Shepherdess,'  which  is  as 
lamely  constructed,  as  devoid  of  actual  rusticity,  and 
as  dreamy  as  can  well  be.  Bi;it  what  words  can  be 
found  to  express  the  superiority  of  Fletcher's  poetry 


Old  Age  195 

or  to  describe  tlie  stupidity  of  the  critic  wlio  does 
not  discern  it?  From  beginning  to  end  of  that  en- 
chanted romance  our  ears  are  charmed  with  jyrical-^ 
music  of  matchless  facility,  and  our  minds  delighted 
with  situations  of  visionary  beauty.  It  must  be 
conceded  that  Fletcher  blurred  the  imaginative  purity 
of  his  conception  liy  fmilfs  r.f  J^n^  and  some  ab- 
solutely ofiensiye  passages.  Yet  these  can  be  de- 
tached from  a  scheme  so  loosely  put  together,  and  the 
sylvan  poetry  remains,  worthy  almost  to  be  ranked 
with  the  divine  melodies  of  Tasso's  '  Aminta.'  Granting 
that  both  Fletcher's  and  Jonson's  pastorals  will  not 
stand  the  test  of  reality,  it  is  surely  better  to  wander 
with  the  former  in  the  glades  of  Arcady  than  with 
Jonson  in  a  theatrical  Sherwood  Forest. 

Great  interest  was  excited  by  the  death  of  Jonson i 
Society  felt  that  with  him  the  last  of  the  heroic  genera- 
tion, of  those  whom  Dryden  subsequently  called  '  the 
giant  race  before  the  flood,'  had  passed  away.  Verses 
were  poured  upon  his  grave,  and  a  sum  of  money  was 
collected  for  the  purpose  of  erecting  to  his  memory  a 
stately  tomb.  The  troubles  of  the  rebellion  intervened 
to  check  this  design,  and  Jonson's  monument  is  the 
plain  slab  in  Westminster  Abbey,  on  which  Sir  John 
Young,  of  Great  Milton,  caused  the  words  ^  0  rare  Ben 
Jonson ! '  to  be  engraved.^  From  the  collection  of  com- 
mendatory poems  compiled  by  Gilford  and  the  book  of 
elegies  called  '  Jonsonus  Virbius,'  selections  might  be 
made  which  prove  beyond  all  doubt  the  high  esteem  of 
his  contemporaries.    Poets,  scholars,  and  men  of  fashion 

^  The  famous  *  rare  Ben  Jonson '  is  said  to  have  been  first  uttered 
after  the  appearance  of  Bartholoview  Fair,  ' 

o  2 


196  Ben  JoNsoN 

vied  in  praise;  nor  was  it  merely  admiration  for  tte 
playwright,  but  love  of  the  man  too,  which  prompted 
such  lines  as  those  of  Shirley,  Cleveland,  Beaumont, 
Fletcher,  Selden,  Chapman,  Waller,  Donne,  Field, 
Marston,  Cartwright,  Marmion,  May,  Herrick,  Ford, 
Lord  Buckhurst,  Falkland,  and  a  host  of  lesser  bards. 
They  are  all  set  to  one  strain,  and  combine  to  celebrate 
*  the  king  of  poets,'  '  the  English  Horace,'  '  immortal 
Ben,'  ' thrice  honoured  father,'  'best  of  English  poets,' 
'  him  who  can  never  be  forgotten.'  It  was  the  age  of 
compliments ;  but  these  verses  bear  notes  of  genuine 
sympathy  and  real  friendship,  which  are  rare  in  the 
eulogistic  lucubrations  of  the  day.  The  panegyrists  do 
not  always  hit  the  right  mark,  as  when  they  laud  Jonson's 
^  noble  thefts,  successful  piracies,'  hinting  that  the  Greek 
and  Latin  muses  were  honoured  by  his  depredations. 
But  there  are  better  things  to  be  found  embedded 
in  the  mass  of  more  uncritical  encomiums,  and  of 
these  I  will  select  a  few  examples.  Shirley,  who  has 
been  unreasonably  represented  as  a  foe  of  Jonson, 
writes : — 

But  he  is  dead  :  time,  envious  of  that  bliss 
Which  we  possessed  in  that  great  brain  of  his, 
By  putting  out  this  light,  hath  darkened  all 
The  sphere  of  Poesy,  and  we  let  fall 
At  best  unworthy  elegies  on  his  hearse. 

Beaumont  contrasts  his  studied  drama  with  the  ephe- 
meral products  of  the  popular  stage  : — 

h    But  thou  hast  squared  thy  rules  by  what  is  good. 
And  art  three  ages  yet  from  understood ; 
And  I  daresay  in  it  there  lies  much  wit  , 
Lost  till  the  readers  can  grow  up  to  it.  /  / 

Waller  opens  his  memorial  poem  with  two  felicitously 


Old  Age  i97 

felt  but  obscul'ely  worded  couplets  on  tlie  nature   of 
Jonson's  world-embracing  comedy  : —  v 

Mirror  of  poets,  mirror  of  our  age  !  / 

Wliich,  her  whole  face  beholdyag  on  thy  stage,  / 

Pleased  and  displeased  with  her  own  faults,  endures 
A  remedj^  like  those  whom  music  cures. 

The  best  and  ripest,  however,  are  Herrick's  verses  oSa 
the  decadence  of  the  drama : — 

After  the  rare  arch-poet  Jonson  died, 

The  sock  grew  loathsome,  and  the  buskin's  pride, 

Together  with  the  stage's  glory,  stood 

Each  like  a  poor  and  pitied  widowhood. 

The  cirque  profaned  was ;  and  all  postures  racked : 

For  men  did  strut  and  stride  and  stare,  not  act. 

Then  temper  flew  from  words  ;  and  men  did  squeak, 

Look  red,  and  blow  and  bluster,  but  not  speak. 

No  holy  rage  or  frantic  fires  did  stir. 

Or  flash  about  the  spacious  theatre. 

No  clap  of  hands,  or  shout,  or  praises-proof 

Did  crack  the  play-house  sides  or  cleave  her  roof. 

Artless  the  scene  was  ;  and  that  monstrous  sin 

Of  deep  and  arrant  ignorance  came  in ; 

Such  ignorance  as  theirs  was,  who  once  hissed 

At  thy  unequalled  play,  the  Alchemist : 

Oh  fie  upon  them  I     Lastly  too,  all  wit 

In  utter  darkness  did,  and  still  will  sit ; 

Sleeping  the  luckless  age  out,  till  that  she 

Her  resurrection  has  again  with  thee. 

With  these  quotations  I  must  leave  a  theme,  the  ful- 
ness of  which  renders  its  adequate  treatment  in  a  book 
of  this  dimension  impossible.  It  remains  to  be  observed 
that  while  the  other  greatest  poets  of  the  age  founded  no 
acknowledged  school,  Jonson's  ^  sons  '  or  pupils  carried 
on  the  traditions  of  his  art  with  considerable  success. 
Marmion,  Randolph,  Brome,   and   Curtwright  were  no 


198  BfN  JONSON 

inconsiderable  inheritors  of  his  dramatic  style.    Herrick 
developed,  with  even  a  larger  share  of  lyric  inspiration, 
the  suggestions  of  his  lighter  muse.    fFinally,  those  who 
have  most  deeply  studied  Jonson  am  most  Truly  felt 
^    his  power,  will  hesitate  the  longest  before  pronouncing 
a  decisive  judgment  on  the  place  he  occupies  among 
/the  foremost  poets  of  our  literature?)  fOne  thing,  how- 
ever, can  be  considered  as  certain  in  any  estimate  which 
we  may  form.     His  throne  is  not  with  the  Olympians 
/  but  wi^h  the  Titans ;    not  with  those  who  share  the 
/      divine   gifts   of    creative    imagination   and   inevitable 
,  \      instinct,  but  with  those  who  compel  our  admiration  by 
/       their  untiring  energy  and  giant  strength  of  intellectual 
"  ^    muscle.     What  we  most  marvel  at  in  his  writings,  is 
the  prodigious  brain-work  of  the   man,   the   stuff  of 
constant  and   inexhaustible  cerebration   they  contaiu. 
Moreover,  we  shall  not  be  far  wrong  in  saying  that,  of 
all  the  English  poets  of  the  past,  he  alone,  with  Milton 
and  Gray,  deserves  the  name  of  a  great  and  widely 
\  learned  scholar.        | 


•^ 


INDEX. 


BACON 

Bacon,  Lord,  148,  157 

Beaumont,  Francis,  Jonson's 
epistle  to,  148  ;  his  poem  on 
the  Mermaid,  151;  lines  on 
Jonson's  art,  196 

Boswell,  Alexander,  156 

Camden,  William,  3,  6,  43, 149 
Coryat,  Tom,  157 
Cotton,  Sir  Eobert,  6 

Dekkek,  Thomas,  satirised  by 
Jonson,  37, 39 ;  helps  Marston 
to  write  '  Satiromastix,'  41 

Donne,  148,  160 

Drama  in  England,  sketch  of 
its  development  before  1598, 
9-14 

Drummond,  William,  of  Haw- 
thornden,  158 ;  Jonson's  visit 
to  him,  158,  159 ;  his  notes 
of  Jonson's  conversations, 
157,  162,  163;  his  summary 
of  Jonson's  character,  161, 
162 ;  extracts  from  the  con- 
versations, 159-161  ;  refer- 
ences to  the  conversations, 
passim. 


JONSON 

Falkland,  Lord,  lines  on 
Jonson's  companj^  of  wits, 
155 

Ferrabosco,  Alfonso,  148 

Fletcher,  his  <  Love's  Pilgrim- 
age,* 177  ;  his  *  Faithful 
Shepherdess,'  195 ;  his  lyrics, 
142;  his  romantic  style,  177 

Fuller,  quoted,  4,  151 

Henslowe,  manager  of  the 
Fortune  theatre,  15  ;  his 
diary,  ib. ;  satirised  by  Jon- 
son, 35,  41 

Herrick,  lines  to  Jonson's 
memory,  152 ;  on  the  de- 
cline of  the  stage,  197 

Humour,  the  sense  in  which 
this  word  is  used  by  Jonson, 
26-28 

Jones,  Inigo,  146 ;  collaborates 
with  Jonson  in  the  production 
of  Court  masques,  125 ;  his 
hostility  against  Jonson,  187 

Jonson,  Benjamin,  his  birth,  1 
probable  Border  ancestry,  2 
educated  at  Westminster,  8 


200 


Ben  Jonson 


works  under  his  step-father,  a 
master-mason,  4;  campaign 
in  Low  Countries,  5  ;  marries 
about  the  year  1592,  5  ; 
death  and  apparition  of  his 
eldest  son,  C  ;  begins  writing 
for  the  theatre,  7  ;  works  for 
Henslowe,  15  ;  duel  with 
Gabriel  Spencer,  17;  im- 
prisonment and  conviction 
for  felony,  18-20  ;  conver- 
sion to  Catholicism  and  re- 
conversion, 20;  comparison 
of  Jonson  with  Shakespeare, 
13,  ?^^,21),45,  48,  54,61,  142, 
151;  Shakespeare  helps  to 
bring  out  *  Every  Man  in  his 
Humour,'  24;  Jonson's  feel- 
ing for  Shakespeare,  25,  149, 
.  161 ;  his  conception  of  poetry, 
30-32 ;  comparison  with  Dry- 
den,  33,  34;  his  arrogance 
and  self-esteem,  34-37;  ten- 
dency toward  personal  satire, 
16,  37,  41,  188  ;  quarrels  with 
Marston  and  Dekker,  37-43  ; 
their  reconciliation,  43  ;  Jon- 
son's voluntary  imprisonment 
for  *  Eastward  Ho,'  43,  44 ; 
his  residence  with  Lord 
Aubigny,  44  ;  Shakespeare 
acts  a  part  in  *  Sejanus,'  45  ; 
short  imprisonment  at  Lord 
Northampton's  instance,  45 ; 
accession  of  James  L,  46 ; 
works  for  Sir  W.  Raleigh  in 
the  Tower,  48 ;  goes  as  tutor 
to  Raleigh's  son  to  Paris 
(1613),  48,  49 ;  his  disinclina- 
tion for  play-writing,  7,  143; 


JONSON 

his  gains  by  the  playwright's 
craft,  7  ;  James  I.  becomes 
Jonson's  patron,  145;  Jon- 
son's ideal  of  a  prince,  145 ; 
pension  and  laureateship, 
146 ;  Jonson's  independent 
character,  146,  147 ;  his 
intimacy  with  noble  folk 
and  men  of  ability,  146- 
148;  his  presidency  of  the 
wits  in  London,  149-156; 
taverns  frequented  by  Jon- 
son, 150 ;  *  The  Mermaid,* 
151;  *The  Sun,'  *  The  Dog,' 
*  The  Triple  Tun,'  152  ;  *  The 
Devil,'  153;  *  The  Apollo 
Room,'  153 ;  Jonson's  con- 
vivial laws,  153;  the  tribe 
of  Ben  and  Jonson's  literary 
sons,  155,  156;  comparison 
of  Ben  Jonson  and  Samuel 
Johnson,  156,  157 ;  Jonson's 
journey  into  Scotland  (1618), 
157;  stays  with  Drummond 
at  Hawthornden,  158;  con- 
flagration of  Jonson's  library, 
164;  books  and  manuscripts 
lost  by  this  accident,  165- 
167 ;  admittef^  \M.A.  at  Ox- 
ford (1610)1  iC7;  obtains 
reversion  of  the  office  of 
Master  of  the  Revels  (1621), 
167 ;  paralysis,  perhaps  in 
1626,  171 ;  Jonson's  personal 
habits  and  unwieldy  size, 
172-174  ;  his  bad  health  in 
later  life,  174 ;  his  position 
at  Court  after  accession  of 
Charles  I.,  174  ;  obtains  post 
of  Chronologer  to  the   City 


Index 


201 


JONSON 

of  London  (1628),  175,  186, 
190 ;  quarrel  with  Inigo 
Jones,  187-189 ;  comparative 
indigence  of  the  bed-ridden 
poet,  189,  190 ;  Jonson's 
death,  195 ;  opinion  of  con- 
temporaries, 195-197 
Jonson,  his  writings.  Additions 
to  Spanish  tragedy,  15; 
tragedy  called  '  Page  of  Ply- 
mouth,* ib. ;  *  The  Case  is 
Altered,'  16;  *  Every  Man 
in  his  Humour'  (1598), 
29 ;  *  Every  Man  out  of 
his  Humour'  (1599),  34:; 
♦Cynthia's  Revels'  (1600),  34, 
135,  136;  *The  Poetaster' 
(1601),  34,  38-41 ;  translates 
and  comments  on  the  *Ars 
Poetica '  of  Horace,  44 ; 
*Sejanus'  (1603),  45,  57; 
begins  to  write  masques  for 
the  Court  of  James  I.,  46  ; 

*  Yolpone'  (1605),  47,  59,  64, 
70-87,  135  j^  ^  TJie  l^ile'nt' 
Woman'  (1609),  47,  57-97, 
134;  *  The  Alchemist '(1610), 
47, 97-110;  *Catihne' (1611), 
47,  57,  58 :  *  Bartholomew 
Fai^'(16U;,    -^  64,111-121; 

*  The  Devil  is  an  Ass '  (1616), 
47,  64,  143,^168,  169;  criti- 
cism of  Jonson's  dramatic 
style,  50-69 ;  his  close  obser- 
vation of  manners,  51 ;  his 
wide  and  deep  erudition, 
51-53;  abstract  types  of 
character,  53-56 ;  laborious 
brain- work,  58-61 ;  his  prose, 
61;    blank   verse,    ^2\    his 


MARLOWE 

qualities  as  a  translator,  63, 
133  ;  analysis  of  the  develop- 
ment of  his  dramatic  genius, 
65-69 ;  his  masques  at  Court, 
124-132 ;  Jonson's  lyrics, 
133-142;  epithalamia,  137; 
elegies  and  epitaphs,  137-139; 
The  *  Celebration  of  Charis,' 
139-141 ;  Jonson  as  a  critic 
of  poetry,  159-160 ;  his  design 
of  writing  a  history  of  his 
Scotch  journey  and  a  pis- 
catory drama,  163;  th' 
*  Execration  upon  Vulc 
164  ;  poem  *  To  the  M  ory 
of  my  beloved  \  ^ster, 
William  Shakespeare'  (1623), 
167;  *The  Staple  of  News' 
(1625),  167,  169-171;  what 
Dryden  meant  by  Jonson's 
dotages,  1 67, 168 ;  *  The  ?^ew 
Inn  '  (1629),  175-179,  182- 
186  ;  its  total  failure  on  the 
stage,  179-182;  the  *  Ode  to 
Himself,'  180  ;  *  The  Tale  of 
a  Tub'  (1633),  188;  'The 
Magnetic  Lady '  (1632),  189 ; 
*The  Sad  Shepherd,'  190; 
problem  of  the  date  of  its 
composition,  191,  192;  the 
quality  of  this  pastoral,  192- 
194  ;  comparison  with  *  The 
Faithful  Shepherdess  *  of 
Fletcher,  194,  195 
Jonsonus  Virbius,  Collection  of 
poems  on  Jonson's  death,  195 

Maelowe,  Christopher,  esta- 
blishes- the  Romantic  drama 
in  England,  13 


202 


Ben  Jonson 


MARMION 

Marmion,  Schackerley,  his 
lines  on  the  Apollo  Club,  15-1 

Marston,  Jonson's  opinion  of,  in 
later  life,  160  ;  satirised  by 
Jonson,  39 ;  collaborates  with 
Jonson  in  *  Eastward  Ho,' 
and  dedicates  *  Malcontent  * 
to  him,  43 

Masques,  definition  of  the 
species,  122;  when  intro- 
duced from  Italy  into 
England,  123;  cost  of  pro- 
ducing them,  123 ;  Jonson's 
collaboration  with  Inigo 
Jones,  124,  125  ;  the  anti- 
masque,  125 ;  historical  in- 
terest of  the  masques  at 
Whitehall,  130-132 

Mayne,  Jasper,  lines  on  Jonson, 
155 

Newcastle,  Earl  of,  Jonson's 
letters  to  him,  189 


Pembroke,  Earl 
Countess  of,  137 

Philostratus,  how 
Jonson,  133 


of, 


147; 
used     by 


Raleigh,     Sir    W.,    Jonson's 

opinion  of,  48,  160 
Rutland,  Countess  of,  147 

Selden,  John,  43,  148  ;  his 
account  of  Jonson's  library, 
164 

Shakespeare,   William,  begins 


by  mending  old  plays,  8 ; 
conforms  to  the  romantic 
style  of  drama,  13  ;  his  edu- 
cation at  Stratford  compared 
^with  that  of  Jonson  in 
•London,  23 ;  his  connection 
with  '  Every  Man  in  hi-? 
Humour '  and  '  Sejanus,'  24, 
45  ;  his  style  compared  with 
Jonson's,  29,  45,  48,  54,  61, 
142,  151 ;  Jonson's  feeling 
for  him,  25,  149,  160 

Shirley,  his  possible  co-opera- 
tion in  Fletcher's  '  Love's 
Pilgrimage,'  177,  note  ;  lines 
on  Jonson's  memory,  196 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  condemns 
the  romantic  drama,  1 1  ; 
eulogised  by  Jonson,  147 

Southwell,  Jonson's  opinion  of, 
160 

Taylor,  John,  the  water-poet, 

157 
Theatres  in  London,    14,  15 ; 

various  dramatic  companies, 

22 

Wadloe,  Simon,  154 
Waller,  his  lines  on  Jonson's 

memory,  197 
Wotton,  Sir  Edward,  Jonson's 

opinion  of,  160 

Young,  Sir  John,  erects  the 
slab  in  Westminster  Abbey 
to  Jonson's  memory,  195         '. 


PRINTED  BY  BALLANTYNE,  HANSON  AND  CC 

LONDON    AND   EDINBURGH 


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